The Auguries of Agra
by Lindenbay
Summary: "He is no hero but he is human like the rest of us whatever he may think of himself. Of course, therein lies his tragedy...he will realise far too late what he has lost and how much it meant to him. And that, my dear Molly, is a better way to destroy a man than merely killing him."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock (TV series) or any affiliations with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's literary estate.

**Warnings:** language, violence, sex scenes

**Author's Note: **I have tried to align this story with the modern interpretation in television and retain some traditional aspects of the original book series as best as I thought. "Biographical" information on characters was used from the Baring-Gould criterion. Nevertheless there are bound to be mistakes so I would appreciate any positive or constructive feedback!

* * *

.

o.O.o

.

* * *

The English countryside was wet and blue from morning rain.

Windowpanes were misted with condensation, providing a grey filter to the outside world and a charming detail to the bay windows in the manor's library. A good-sized fire was quietly burning in the fireplace. Columns of leather-bound books with gilded pages lined the walls and boasted famous names that made their mark on the literary world.

Understated luxury was ever present around Molly. The thick Persian rug at her feet, the wood paneled ceilings above her. Even the chair she was sitting in was a beautiful piece of mahogany. There was no rope, tape, or handcuff that tied her to where she was. Only a paralysing sense of dread and fear.

A company of men in sleek suits surveyed her dispassionately from a few feet. A camera was set high on a tripod and linked to a laptop that another personnel member was managing at a nearby desk.

"That garment, take it off her." The tallest ordered, his eyes going over to Molly's woolly coat.

Instantly she cringed when one of the aides approached.

"I have no interest in having you molested in any manner, my dear." The man who gave the order said when he noticed Molly's reaction. "But I do need Mr. Holmes to see you as you are."

Mute and terrified, she stared at him.

"The coat, Molly." The man's blue eyes flickered over to her. "Please."

Lowering her head, she undid the fastenings and leaned forward in her chair as far as her body would allow. Holding the collar, the aide slipped the coat off and with a concluding swish of fabric, Molly's pregnant belly was revealed to the world.

"Thank you." The man walked forward.

Firelight cast an unflattering hue to his pasty complexion and though age had hardened the outlines of his face, there was a hint of what may have been a defined cheek and a wonderfully curved jaw line. Though very tall, he did not stoop like so many of the geriatric patients Molly had seen in her residency before opting out to be a coroner. Every inch of him exuded sophistication and his bearing was regal even in these revolting circumstances.

He turned to the aide at the desk. "Turn the camera on. Tell me when you've locked him in."

A dot of green light appeared on the device. "...our stream is active. Ready when you are, sir."

"He has accessed it?"

"Yes."

"Good, we will see him shortly." The man returned his attention to Molly. "You are not to speak at any point during our conversation. If you have any regard for your baby's safety, you will not attempt to signal or send any form of communique to Mr. Holmes. Is that understood?"

Molly could barely nod.

The man gave a grim smile.

"I am sorry that we had to meet this way. I did give instructions that when my men took you yesterday, they were to use mild force only. We are not accustomed to kidnapping pregnant women but given the situation, an exception had to be made."

He glanced downward.

"I trust that my staff have been keeping you well? They will provide you with whatever you need. You are free to use the library and walk about the gardens, with supervision, of course. I would encourage you to do so. They are beautiful at this time of year—"

"Please..." Molly broke in. "Why...why are you doing this?"

"He's on, sir." The aide interjected.

"All in good time." The man replied as he straightened himself and faced the camera.

The light changed to red.

"Good morning Mr. Holmes." The man greeted. "Thank you for joining us. I certainly do hope that you are not in conference with your brother Mycroft at this time. I do not appreciate government interference and would advise you to not depend on them, particularly on the matter I wanted to discuss with you today.

"My name is Roland Sabren. If that sounds familiar to you at all, it should. I was a friend of your father's at Eton. We used to have tea now and then at the Langham whilst he was still a barrister. From what I've seen in the papers and the surveillance photographs my men have taken of you, you look very much like Siger but you've got Violet's colouring."

Sabren paused.

"Neither you nor Mycroft have met me. But you Mr. Holmes...we have crossed paths albeit in an indirect fashion. You were well acquainted with an associate of mine, James Moriarty. I know he took an especial interest in you when you interfered with our transactions with Black Lotus. After that mess, I thought that you had reached an understanding but clearly, you had not, so I sent Moriarty to kill you.

"I admit, Moriarty was overly enthusiastic in trying to employ a creative way to dispatch you to the grave. Unfortunately for him, he did not succeed and I do not need to laud you on your resourcefulness. It took us almost a year to discover that you are, in fact, not dead as we thought. So...after Moriarty died and you had disappeared, it came to my attention that something was missing in our inventory.

"Naturally, I checked the obvious places and tracked persons of interest but it is nowhere to be found. The conclusion I have drawn from these fruitless searches is that once again, you, are in the possession of an item that does not belong to you. Believe me when I say that I have an excellent reason to suspect you and whether you intentionally or unintentionally have it, I want it back."

Sabren stepped away momentarily so the camera was now focused on Molly. She gazed after the blank lens with such intensity, knowing who was behind it, and willed every fibre of thought and feeling to articulate itself through her eyes.

_I love you...I love you so much...I'm frightened...but please...don't come. Don't come back for me. _

"As you can see, _I _have something that belongs to _you_. Or somethings, I should pluralise, and it seems I am getting the bargain in this deal. I have been made aware that Dr. Hooper did not inform you of her pregnancy. I can assure you that she is very much carrying your child and you can check with Mycroft if you would like. If you have any doubts on the paternity, direct yourself to the gestational dates in her medical chart. I am confident that you can deduce whether or not you are indeed the father but given how unfailingly loyal your Molly is, I'm sure you will reach the same conclusion as I did."

Sabren shifted back into view, clasping his hands behind his back and locked his blue eyes on the viewfinder.

"You will find that I do not indulge in games unlike Moriarty so I shall make this simple. You have one week to find and deliver my treasure. Once this is done, we will negotiate a trade whereupon Dr. Hooper will be returned to you unharmed. Whilst she is in my custody, her needs will be taken care of accordingly. If there is any involvement or use of MI6 resources—including that of England's allies—I will have her killed and do not presume that I will even spare the life of a child. If my men give me any reason to suspect you of double-crossing us, if you do not give me what I seek within the allotted time..."

Molly bowed her head as she choked back a sob.

"...I will make you regret it for the rest of your life so do not test me."

In a few steps, Sabren was just inches from the camera and expressed with a veneer of sadistic pleasure to the man who had done so much to wreak havoc on his black empire.

"Peruse into the girl's file and you will find that she isn't expecting just a child but two. Two very healthy baby boys, at least for now. These are your sons. Sons who may never get to know their father if he crosses another line."

Sabren smiled.

"Congratulations Mr. Holmes. We will be in touch."

The light died and with it, Molly's hopes of ever seeing Sherlock again. With the session concluded, one of the aides began disabling and putting the camera away.

"He won't do it." Her voice was softened with fear but there was an edge of a challenge in it. "He won't find whatever it is you're looking for. You're wasting your time. I don't mean anything to him. Not even..." Her hands touched where she could feel her sons roll and kick.

"You really think so?" Sabren's eyes grew cold. "Sherlock is not a man of sentiment, that much is true, but you...you are a living contradiction to that. I imagine that this is a very unique set of circumstances for him to deal with.

"He is no hero but he is human like the rest of us whatever he may think of himself. Of course, therein lies his stupidity and in a sense, a tragedy too...he will realise far too late what he has lost and how much it meant to him. And that, my dear Molly, is a better way to destroy a man than merely killing him."


	2. Chapter 2

_One Year Earlier_

_._

.oOo.

_._

_April _

Fracture of the right femoral shaft and knee dislocation. Lacerations to the forehead. Rib fracture in the fourth.

Receiving a list of injuries was not an unfamiliar task to Molly and Sherlock was no exception. They had planned it well, she thought. An illusion of the eye, a minute timing of events involving a bribed rubbish truck and a young cyclist was all it took for John and the bystanders to see what they believed to be a suicide. Molly provided the nameless corpse. Mycroft then sabotaged it with convincing injuries and produced a steady stream of paperwork to uphold its legitimacy.

A snag in the plan had been the need for medical intervention when Molly realised the full extent of Sherlock's injuries and after insisting on surgical treatment, Sherlock was carted away to a government hospital reserved for SIS and its affiliations. After the surgeon pronounced him to be in satisfactory condition, he slipped away to anonymity in a safe haven: Molly's flat.

What a triumvirate to pull off such a deception.

Could she have expected it to have gone any better? Molly wondered when she glanced at Sherlock's sleeping form nestled into her couch. As a result of her ministrations, his leg was propped high on a stack of down pillows and his chest shone white in the dark from the gauze bandages she had so carefully wrapped to form a splint.

"...Molly?" Sherlock's deep voice rose from the cushions.

"Yeah?" She gave a start. How long had he been awake?

"I don't appreciate being stared at whilst I'm sleeping. It's creepy."

"Oh—I—I'm sorry, so sorry, didn't mean to. I wasn't...well...okay, never mind." Molly bumbled on and feeling, once again for the thousandth time, the stupidest person on earth. Pursing her lips in embarrassment, she pushed the door to a close.

"Molly?"

"I'm going to bed, Sherlock, not staring. Good nigh—"

"Thank you for saving my life."

His face was turned away, hidden by the angle and his head of curls, but even she could hear—or what she believed to hear—the note of gratitude.

And at that, for the first time since this chaotic enterprise had begun, Molly smiled.

.

.oOo.

.

_June_

"God DAMN it!"

A slew of papers and books exploded into the air as Sherlock set down his fists on the desk. Molly shrieked and closely following it was the sound of her breakfast tray shattering on the floor. Her cat Toby was hissing.

"Ah..." Molly knelt down to start picking up fragments of broken dishes.

"That witless excuse of an officer, Lestrade! The answer is IN THE SHOES! Look. At. The. Shoes!" Sherlock gesticulated into the air before collapsing onto the sofa in total frustration. He glared at the telly screen's display of Inspectors Lestrade and Donovan sitting side-by-side at a press conference as they doled out scraps of information regarding a murder case to the reporters.

"Honestly, how Scotland Yard ever got on before I came is beyond me. I can't _imagine _how many _boxes _of unsolved cases there have been because of the morons and cretins hired to solve them!" Sherlock shook his head in violent derision. "Can you believe this Molly? Molly?"

He looked for her in the kitchen but she wasn't there. When he finally saw her, she was on her knees and in the middle of gathering scraps from the floor.

"What happened?"

Molly set her jaw.

Until several months ago, she felt she had a real grasp of the agonising irritation that came when living with Sherlock. The eccentricities she had seen him display at work barely scratched the surface of his moodiness. He would oscillate between boredom, anger, frustration, or excitement because the idea of settling into one place ill-suited him. Cleaning was an alien concept, as was social grace and courtesy. His fine mind withstanding, he was terrible at everything else so that in a few short weeks Molly's flat and her patience were deteriorating faster than she had anticipated.

John, she decided, must have had nerves of steel to endure such a thing.

"You startled me."

"I did?" Sherlock blinked.

"Yes, I had a tray."

"But why would you have breakfast in your living room? You always make breakfast and have it in the kitchen. Why would you..." He stopped as his eyes wandered to the carpet.

Eighteen pieces of broken flatware suggesting four plates. Two knives, two forks, two spoons. Quantities of jam, butter, and seedcake were double that of a single serving. Spilled coffee. Molly didn't drink coffee in the mornings, she preferred juice.

He reached down for the upturned teacup where a spoonful of liquid remained and brought it to his lips. Black, he tasted, with two sugars.

"You...made me breakfast." Sherlock realised aloud.

For once, he was grateful that John was absent to witness yet another faux pas. He could almost _hear _John snapping at him for his thoughtlessness. One glance at the remnants of the tray was enough for Sherlock to see how much deliberation went into it.

The coffee was made precisely how he took it. The bread, he could tell from the odour and feel of crumb, had been baked this morning. A lemony scent. Blackberry jam. Both flavours being his favourite. How had she known? Did he tell her this or did she pick it up from observation?

Molly kept her eyes fixed to the floor and concentrated harder than was necessary in wiping down a jam stain when Sherlock's hand rested atop of hers to stop.

"I'll clean up."

"It's okay," Molly reassured, "I've got it."

"No." Sherlock cut in a little loudly than he intended. He cleared his throat. "Please, let me."

Molly raised her head in surprise but he was no longer looking at her. In a quiet and efficient manner, he was gathering up the pieces one by one into his hands then started to tackle the carpet.

"There's extra coffee and seedcake." Molly offered, trying very hard to suppress a smile as she didn't want to ruin the moment. Apologies from Sherlock were rather valuable, if not rare. "If...if you still wanted to have breakfast."

Sherlock nodded as he piled up the mess and dirtied napkins onto the tray.

"Okay." Molly rose and returning to the kitchen, she picked up the knife and started to cut generous slices of pastry on the breadboard. When she turned, she found him standing next to her, holding aloft the serving plate she was looking for.

"That cake..."

"Yes?"

"I had a bite of it whilst I was cleaning." Sherlock said. "Poppy seed and lemon, good pairing."

"Yeah, I know." Molly's eyes brightened in understanding. "It's your favourite, right? I notice you usually eat that kind at work and when the cafe at the hospital doesn't have any, you complain non-stop."

She took the serving plate from him. "Come on, let's eat."

.

.oOo.

.

_July_

A series of thefts and an unusual silence were the first things Molly noticed.

Just as she had grown accustomed to Sherlock's outbursts and mood swings, they came to a grinding stop which Molly found disquieting. They coincided directly with her workbag going missing then turning up in a completely different location at the flat and when she rummaged through the contents, she often found patient charts either missing or their papers had been sorted in an odd manner.

Then there was Sherlock's red pen. He constantly clicked on its end until she thought his thumb would fall off and would throw furtive looks her way.

Molly wasn't stupid. In fact, she told him so after catching him in his dressing gown and crouched in a corner with Toby, scribbling away notes into the latest autopsy report on a deceased thirty-seven year old male who had died from acute liver failure.

"You can't just nick my things." She argued as she swiped the chart away from Sherlock's hands. "Besides, the ruling was suicide. Paperwork's already gone through."

Sherlock snorted. "Suicide? You call _this _a suicide?" He struck the chem panel with the point of his pen.

"The case was closed. Lestrade himself did it."

"Yes, and the crime scene was processed by that brainless slug Anderson." Sherlock shot up from the floor. "They have to reopen it. This man _did not_ kill himself."

"He overdosed on acetaminophen and it ruined his liver, the cellular structures were completely damaged. He had a history of chronic pain from a botched laminectomy ten years ago and was diagnosed bipolar I. I've seen patients like him. He most likely lost track of how many pills he took—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"_Doctors_...always depending on past experiences instead of treating each case as unique. This is precisely why your profession errs so much in diagnoses." He grabbed the chart back and flipped it to the police report. "There—look—this man was involved in a domestic dispute with his wife a year ago. It says he was intoxicated at the time."

"So he was pissed off when he fought with his wife. That's common."

"_Molly._" Sherlock exaggerated her name in dismay. "It means he is used to drinking alcohol and his wife, of all people, would know that better than anyone. She also was aware of his habits and more than likely his pain problem.

"It would have been so_ easy_. Acetaminophen is one of the most common drugs used to alleviate pain. Tylenol, Advil, whatever have you! She could have given him any one of those and plied him with alcohol. He wouldn't have known the difference or keep track of his doses...no, not for someone suffering from a bad back."

"But the wife..." Molly was growing horrified, realising the magnitude of the situation.

"Put on a big show for you, did she?" Sherlock confidently guessed. He shook his head, chuckling darkly to himself. "All the merry widows do. Look at her signature on all the documents—her handwriting is legible and extremely clear. When you've just lost the supposed 'love of your life,' there would tremours. The letters would be jumbled or the ink splotched with tears _but there is none of that here! _She's even letting the district morgue take his body and not even bothering to arrange for a funeral herself— Molly, phone Lestrade right now and tell him he is the biggest idiot the universe has ever seen."

"No, I'm not going to do that." Molly replied. Seeing Sherlock working himself up into another tirade, she added: "Greg would never listen to me. I'm not a detective, a constable, or anything."

"For god's sake, you are the coroner!" Sherlock snapped. "Do you have any idea how much your word is valued in court?"

He grabbed Molly's shoulders.

"I can't go to Lestrade or anyone at Bart's, you know I can't and why. But you..." His eyes were darkened by intensity. "You can speak up. You can say _something_. A comment, a question, it doesn't matter how you pose it just as long as you lead them to the truth. Because if you don't, a murderer will walk free."

Molly gazed after him.

They stood, locked on one another, assessing their bearings. At first, Molly felt overwhelmed as Sherlock loomed over her but as the moments stretched into seconds, she felt herself growing taller from within and stared back at him with equal depth.

She was a doctor, a product of several fine schools and well-established mentors known throughout the nation. Someone who had gone into the world of law to bring some tangible sense of justice and ensure the safety of innocents. She may not have been gifted with Sherlock's deductive abilities but she was talented in many other ways to compensate or even match up.

_I am not a mouse. I am an equal. _

"Okay." Molly kept her eyes on Sherlock. "Okay. Let's go over it again, starting from the beginning..."

.

.oOo.

.

_August_

Theirs was a peculiar system.

But it worked for them.

Molly gave gifts in the form of autopsy records and as she grew bolder over the weeks, she added police reports to the collection, confessing rather guiltily to Sherlock that she had nicked them. Sometimes she would even have blood or tissue samples much to his delight. Once, she brought an entire arm so he could calculate and observe the progression of post-mortem hematomas. It lay inside the vegetable drawer of Molly's refrigerator amidst the other specimens until they had to throw it out because of the smell.

In exchange for this wealth of information, Sherlock provided his assessments in furious writings and coached her on how to artfully approach Lestrade without appearing suspicious. Unfortunately his suggestions were often interlaced with ideas on how to get Anderson fired so Molly had to tease out the relevant portions in her lessons.

They frequently engaged in discourses, engorging themselves on the applications of chemistry, pharmokinetics, and physics to the matter at hand. As these discussions progressed, so did Molly's courage, and she found herself able to counter Sherlock on a few occasions.

And to Sherlock's surprise, he discovered Molly to be very good substitute for John. Whilst she lacked John's speed and military prowess, she was very apt in the physical sciences. She also didn't mind storing body parts in the fridge which was a refreshing change as John's disgust for this was so extreme that he had banned Sherlock from hoarding any human specimens in 221B.

Best of all, Sherlock had found out by chance, she was fantastic at charades.

"A...bird...angel? No it's a monster!" Molly avidly watched Sherlock as he bounced around the flat flapping his arms in the imitation of wings and pretending to destroy a decorative pillow with clawed hands. Screwing up his face, he made a noiseless roar.

"Dragon!" Molly cried. "You're a dragon!"

Sherlock pumped a fist into the air, looking wildly pleased at Molly's correct answer. He dropped down to his knees then started to shuffle along his kneecaps or as far as his right would allow.

"Penguin?" Molly was giggling. "Emperor penguin, no? Midget...dwarf? Dwarf! No, no, Hobbit! The Hobbit! You're Smaug!" She jumped out from the sofa in excitement.

"YES!" Sherlock burst out, exalted.

Laughing, Molly fell back into the cushions. The cat eyed her in apparent interest then withdrew his gaze, preferring to remain in his spot near the fireplace.

"Twenty for you." Sherlock scribbled onto the score pad. A cascade of cards were strewn about the coffee table. "We should do this more often. John hates charades, he's bad at it too. Never understands my pantomimes."

Molly's brows rose. "You and John play charades?"

"_I _play charades." Sherlock corrected. "John can't act to save his life except being a soldier. He's good at pretending to still be one."

"I'm surprised you even like it at all." Molly confessed as she ran a hand through her hair to retie it. "I thought you'd think the game was silly."

Sherlock gave a sarcastic grin and at once, Molly knew that there was more to it than that.

"Yes, that's what appears to most people doesn't it? Silly?"

His pencil began to tap furiously against his hand.

"Charades is an exercise of examination. You are forced to concentrate on body language, expression, even the clothes people wear to ascertain an explanation on the how, why, and what they are trying to show you. The answer. A solution. It's good practice for me, and by extension, John, given what we do. Sadly, he never saw it that way but then again he's not a genius and his powers of observation are limited at best."

"Okay..." Molly's smile wavered upon Sherlock's inadvertent insults on John.

"But you, you're quite good." Sherlock pointed his pencil at her. "I'm surprised. You never struck me as being brilliant or deeply perceptive but if we keep this up, you can become very adept."

"Yeah." The fun was fizzling away faster than an opened soda can.

"Right then." Sherlock exhaled in satisfaction. "What's for dinner?"

"Dunno."

Molly rose from the sofa and started for her room.

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean you don't know? You always make dinner and don't tell me you're not hungry because you are. You only got home two hours ago. There's no food residue on your fingers, your hair is still tied, and you smell of latex which means you've been in the lab all day."

"If you figured out all that already, why don't _you_ make dinner?" She sighed.

"But...you...normally do that. I don't do everyday tasks. It wastes time."

"Whilst you are doing what, exactly?" She crossed her arms. "You've spent the past months convalescing and I know your leg is better. You finished the last batch of cases I gave you. It's just you and Toby here."

"Don't think I've been idle, I've been working on—"

Molly turned aside, surprised and offended. _But how can I be? _She caught herself. Sherlock was never conscientious of others. _And he always will be like this..._

"I'm not your housekeeper."

"That's what Mrs. Hudson says but she does my laundry and cooks for me anyway."

"Because she cares about you. She's your friend."

"And you're not?"

Molly leveled her gaze. "I don't know, am I?"

Sherlock looked bemused.

Perhaps it was the confusion, the obliviousness of it all, that struck her the most. It made her stop, wonder, and think. Really think beyond the haze of emotion. His oddly-timed compliments that coincided with favours, the way he rolled his eyes and shook his head when she had come to the Christmas party, even when he stood before her with nothing...nothing...needing her. But what had it all been for?

"I'm a coroner." Molly answered for herself. She nodded, finally understanding at last. "I'm just a coroner. You knew that...you...knew I'd do anything for you. That's why you asked me."

Sherlock stared after her.

"It's okay, I get it." Molly tried to smile but it died before it reached her lips. Turning away, she headed for the bedroom then changing her mind, she stopped midway.

"You know what, for what it's worth, I meant what I said." She never looked away from his face. "If you ever needed anything, you can have me."

Then before she could hear an answer she didn't—couldn't—bear, she disappeared into her room.

.

.oOo.

.

_September_

The routine had changed, Sherlock noted.

Ever since the night they played charades, she was different around him. She stayed later at the hospital, coming home only to sleep and bathe. They no longer shared meals, not even breakfast. Only a neat pile of autopsy and police reports left on the kitchen counter would be waiting for him in the morning. Toby was the only company he could afford nowadays but even the cat preferred a rubber ball than listening to his thoughts.

It was fine, he had decided.

He liked it better this way, it was as if he had the flat all to himself and he could be uninterrupted in his new pursuit for hours at end. He sifted through financial statements of every business front Moriarty was known to have used and background papers he routinely nicked off the Interpol server. There was a trail and if the network was anything as substantial as he had suspected, someone in the spider's web was bound to make a mistake.

It was fine.

His leg was almost healed and as soon as he was able, he could get a hold of Mycroft and no longer inconvenience Molly. It would be a setback not to live somewhat fairly close to Baker Street and St. Bartholomew so he could track John and Mrs. Hudson. Or Lestrade. Or Molly herself.

Sherlock looked up from the balance sheet of Janus Cars to see the empty chair across the dining table. An odd assortment of images flooded his head. The coffee cup,the present in scarlet wrappings which turned out to be a new Breitling that had been left in 221B, a shade of lipstick called _macaroon_, a set of brown eyes, the unmistakable sign of bravery in a girl's face as she looked upon the unknown.

"Lemon poppy-seed..." Sherlock muttered, rubbing the edge of a used napkin against his thumb. Toby's inscrutable eyes blinked as he lay comfortably next to the notes.

_If there's anything you need, you can have me. _

He leaned back in his seat.

Piles of information surrounded the table, pieces of a puzzle waiting to be put together in one coherent whole and yet for the moment, he was perplexed by the conundrum Molly had left him. The question was frighteningly tantalising, the answer even more elusive.

_...what are you...? _


	3. Chapter 3

.

.oOo.

.

A thick, acrid smell of smoke hit Molly's nose as soon as she stepped inside her flat after finishing night call. Eyes watering and careful not to breathe too deeply, she ajar the front door open and ventured into the kitchen.

Her mouth sagged open in horror.

Vegetable scraps were littered about the countertops and all four burners had somehow been stained with fat splashes of cooked oil. There were eggshells on the floor. Even the vent above the stove top was blackened.

"Ah, evening Molly." Sherlock greeted, holding a frying pan and not even sparing a backward glance to the chaos around him.

"What...are you_ doing._..?"

"Omelette. I made you an omelette. Don't you want it?"

"It's almost midnight." Molly stared.

"Breakfast for dinner then." Sherlock tossed a dishrag on his shoulder. Shaking the eggs from the pan onto a spare plate, he motioned her to sit at the table. When Molly finally did, she found herself looking at a browned mess with oily toppings burned to a crisp.

"What is it?"

"I can't eat this."

"Yes you can, it's healthy. Egg-white omelette with equal parts of bell peppers and tomatoes."

"No, this is pure carbon." She turned to look at him then surveyed the kitchen in dismay.

"I had a few flops," was Sherlock's only explanation.

"A _few_?" Molly started to scold him then stopped. She took in the mess, not as a disoriented whole, but pieces that each told a story albeit an infuriating one. The egg carton, purchased only two days ago, was empty and from the wild jumble of peelings in the sink, it looked like Sherlock had ransacked a week's worth of groceries. It also was evident that he had tried to cook the stupid omelette multiple times and the brown glob was all he had to show for it.

All this, just so he could serve her dinner when she got home?

The months of spending time with him had left a definitive mark on her perceptions. She looked down at the plate in embarrassment and in spite of herself, a smile crept up to her cheeks.

"...is this your way of apologising to me?"

"Are you going to eat it or not?" Sherlock looked at her expectantly. The expression on his face was akin to that of a little boy who was trying to make up to his playmate for some petty spat they had by giving a gift then waiting for a favourable response.

He would never admit to it, she knew.

But it was a start.

Gamely, she cut her fork into what should have been eggs and ate it. The nearly overwhelming taste of burned oil and texture of soggy vegetables filled her mouth. Fighting to keep it down, she forced herself to nod.

"It's good…really good. Thank you."

.

.oOo.

.

_October_

"John, pass me that file will you?"

The papers came along with a disgruntled look. "Molly."

"Yes."

The sleet was pounding uneven thuds against the windowpane as though determined to break in and steal all the warmth from the flat. Sherlock was in the midst of a lie in, absorbed in the sofa cushions and thought. The wrinkled hem of his dressing gown trailed over the edge and Molly's shoulders in graceless fashion as she sat at the base.

She thumbed through the case report of a man who had tragically died in what appeared to be a random group assault. An honourably discharged soldier, his history had said.

"...do you miss him? John, I mean?"

"What I'm missing is the toxicology panel. Do you have it somewhere?" was the reply.

Molly looked at him pointedly. "You don't have to avoid answering."

"The tox screen, Molly. Now."

She plucked it out from the folder and handed it over, feeling the paper struck out of her hand as Sherlock snatched it in impatience. An hour or so passed before the conversation resumed but for once, she didn't start it.

"You certainly miss him still."

"Sorry, what?" Molly turned to find Sherlock perusing a file. His eyes were anywhere but on her.

"Your father. You look at his picture there on the wall every night." Sherlock gestured vaguely to the direction of her bedroom. "How long has it been since he died?"

A dull blow struck at her heart, filling her with a familiar yet indescribable sadness. "Dad passed away when I was sixteen. Late stage adrenocarcinoma. He never smoked in his life but somehow got it."

A weighty silence followed.

"I wish you could have met him." Molly's eyes grew soft. "He was a wonderful person, lovely really, the first honourable man I ever knew. He liked puzzles too, just like you, especially the number ones in the American newspapers."

"Perhaps you've inherited some of his habits but you don't look anything like Nathaniel."

"How—" Molly gave a start. "How did you know—"

"His name is engraved on the frame."

She stared after Sherlock but he still would not look at her. "If you don't mind me asking..."

"I do mind but you're going to ask anyway so say it."

Molly bit her lip. "Are your parents still here?"

"No. They're dead." There was a clear note of finality in his voice.

"Oh okay." Molly turned away, feeling quite empty. The awkwardness was becoming quite tangible to the point where she didn't think she could brush it under the rug and call it a day.

"I'm sorry." And she not only meant it, she understood it, which is why she continued to face the other way as she spoke. No matter how flat he could make his voice sound or laconic he was being, she knew he could recall the loss as though it were yesterday. "What were they like, your mum and dad?"

She could feel Sherlock fidget and wondered if she had offended him because he didn't speak for a long time. When he finally did, his voice had dropped an octave lower and lost its rich timbre.

"Two people who couldn't have been more different." His mind wandered to hazy memories of a lady with laughing eyes on a swing, the sunlight speckling her blouse with spots of light. The backside of an impeccably well-dressed man carrying on quiet conversations within the confines of a study.

"Mother liked to paint and tell stories. She used to read with Mycroft and me for hours."

"Really." Molly tried to imagine two little boys sitting next to a woman who had long hair as dark and curly as Sherlock's with a book open in the lap of her dress. "What was she called?"

"Violet."

The sweetness of the name touched Molly and somehow fit perfectly with the mental picture she had conjured of the late Mrs. Holmes.

"I'm sure she was wonderful."

"She was."

The rain was coming to a close. Molly could tell from the sudden quiet that descended upon the flat. She leaned back into the sofa, feeling the satin of Sherlock's dressing gown sliding against her hair. It shouldn't have been strange but it was, to think of someone who had loved Sherlock or even realise that he had had a _childhood_. She had often heard Sally Donovan swearing at NSY to anyone who would listen that Sherlock had been hatched, not born.

_You miss her still. _That much was clear to Molly and the thought stayed with her long after Sherlock had gone to bed. Violet Holmes had not been forgotten by her son and by extension he had not forgotten how to feel.

At least that's what Molly hoped.

.

.oOo.

.

_November_

The number three was all Sherlock could see on the counter and it irritated him.

"A robbery, identity theft, and more theft. That's all you brought?" He glared at Molly in disappointment. "Where are the murders? Kidnappings? Isn't there something more highbrow than this rubbish?"

"Haven't you been watching the telly? Greg's been on fire." She grinned in an effort to brush off his abrasive response. Time had allowed her to grow accustomed to his bluntness and to not take it personally. "All those cases we put away for the last eight months have put him in good cheer. Sally thinks he's going to get promoted soon."

"The cases _I _solved, you mean."

"And who's been bringing them by and going over it all with you?"

"Lestrade should be thanking me on his knees." Sherlock seethed, refusing to acknowledge Molly's partnership even though it was glaringly obvious that without her participation none of this would have been possible and he would have been stuck in a safe house for _months _without any kind of intellectual stimulation.

"Well the crime rate has declined by almost a quarter, at least that's what the papers are saying. London is safer."

"No, London just got more boring."

"It's all they have for now." Molly offered him the files again. "Everything else is the same. These were the most 'complicated' ones I could find."

None too pleased, he took them from her and although the breadth of the pages should have been enough of a barrier, her fingers somehow found the underside of his palm and remained there for half a second longer than they should have, leaving a spot of warmth on his cool skin.

.

.oOo.

.

What she said was right, she was only a coroner. He hadn't minced words when he told her needed _her_…unique position at the hospital, ability to manufacture and deface a corpse, flat to lie low.

Eight weeks were more than sufficient time to have recovered from his broken leg to move without assistance. The smallness of the living space and even the cat's very presence should have driven him mad from cabin fever.

There was nothing keeping him here.

…so why was he staying?

.

.oOo.

.

_December_

Compared to the last year, Molly's Christmas gift was a disappointment.

A night out was the present she had offered and seeing how the only places he dared to venture these days were the shadowed parts of the city, it seemed like a waste not to accept.

Sherlock unhappily stood in Trafalgar Square, watching the throngs of families and tourists gathered to wait for the Christmas tree to be lit. The winter chill bit at his cheeks but his nose stayed warm, partly covered by the temporary prosthetic that Molly had spent half an hour applying on him. An extra precaution was taken by dyeing his hair auburn. The result was fair but convincing? He buried the lower half of his face in his scarf.

In total contrast, he could see that Molly was enjoying herself. Her face brightened like the sun as soon as they got out of the cab and had their first glimpse of the tree. Had he been a man who appreciated physical beauty, he would have been struck by her looks this evening. Her makeup had been done in a light hand with just a touch of powder and the full sweep of liner, giving an edge of definition to her eyes. She had kept her ashen brown hair loose and flowing, nestled under a soft white cap that contrasted well with the crimson coat and black boots she was wearing.

Molly was, Sherlock assessed, beautiful. Beautiful and predictable. Her tote bag was bulging with what could only be a present and Sherlock knew she would be planning to give it to him at some moment she regarded as "special."

"This is a terrible idea." He got right to the point.

"We just got here." Molly was absorbed with the sight of the illuminated National Gallery and the fountains' arched sprays. "Happy Christmas!" She smiled back to a couple who had greeted her with the same.

"Don't do that." Sherlock warned when the strangers disappeared. "You're attracting attention."

Despite his lack of enthusiasm for the holiday season, he had to admit that Molly could not have picked out a more perfect time and location to go out. Christmas always brought crowds and with it, the perfect backdrop if one needed to hide in plain sight. The cover of darkness was an added bonus.

A fresh wave of American exchange students descended upon the square and as the crowd started to condense with the new addition, he felt himself being pushed closer to the tree. Thinking fast, he grabbed Molly's hand.

"What—?" Her mouth opened in surprise.

"Stay close to me." Sherlock pulled her towards him so that their bodies touched and his face was just in reach for a kiss. "Pretend we're a couple, we'll blend in more easily."

Stunned, Molly lost the power of speech. Was Sherlock's arm _actually_ around her and were they really _holding hands_? A blush rose to her cheeks and she looked away, afraid he would see. Instead, she started to scan the crowd. It wouldn't be long now.

"_Ah…_!" was the crowd's collective response when the dark shadow of the Christmas tree suddenly came to life, adorned in strings of white lights. Cheers and applause quickly followed, and with it, happy laughter.

"_Deck the halls with boughs of holly…" _A group of strong, loud voices arose from the square.

Sherlock scoffed. "Molly, let's go."

"Wait, wait!" She tugged at the lapel of his coat.

"I'm not going to listen to this, their pitch is off."

"_Look_."

Sherlock turned to where Molly was pointing.

There, standing across from the base and at the steps of the gallery, was John. He wasn't alone but with a group. Mike Stamford and his wife were taking pictures with their iPhones. Lestrade was looking rather cheerful and kissing an unrecognisable, curvaceous brunette. A woman in a cream-coloured coat, whom Sherlock surmised to be John's date, was shyly holding John's hand. Harriet stood next to them, demonstratively singing with the other carollers as she threw an affectionate arm around her brother's shoulders.

And John? He was smiling awkwardly but laughing at his sister's antics and Sherlock could tell he was genuinely happy.

"They were planning to come here tonight for the lighting." Molly's voice floated by his ear. "I told them I was busy so I could bring you out. I thought you would want to see them, especially John."

For once, Sherlock found himself unable to reply.

"Hey." A gloved hand touched his cheek.

He lowered his gaze to find Molly holding out a long box beautifully wrapped in gold paper for him. Without much ceremony or even a thank you, he tore away the cover and flipped the top open.

There, lying in a bed of tissue paper, was his violin and bow from Baker Street. He ran a finger along the whorl of the scroll, noting from touch and sight that the instrument had been polished. When he finally looked up, he saw Molly regarding him with a soft, almost tender expression.

"Happy Christmas Sherlock..."

.

.oOo.

.

When the snow came at last, so did Molly's nonsensical questions.

"Have you ever been in love?"

"Molly, not now."

"No, really, have you ever…have you ever cared for somebody else?"

"Why do you put subjective contexts on physiological response to stimuli?"

"It's not hormones, it's just how people are."

"What a brilliant assessment Dr. Hooper. Please, enlighten me the dynamics of human emotion."

"…I know it sounds stupid, but it's something my dad taught me. We're all connected, you see. We all experience or at least want to, in one way or the other, friendship, trust, honour, and…love. We all have hearts."

"The heart is not a repository. It's just a four-chambered organ designed to pump blood and air. You're injecting meaning on things that don't last or have any tangible value."

"But they _are _valuable."

"Your insistence is charmingly naïve. Friendships can be severed, honour violated, trust broken, and love is bound to fade."

"Well I don't see it that way."

He almost smiled at her contradiction but stopped at the expression on her face. There was resolution and a steely quality within her eyes, something that told him that no matter what he said or did, he wasn't going to change her mind.

"Nothing lasts forever, Molly."

"You're wrong. Some things do."

.

.oOo.

.

She couldn't have been right.

She just couldn't have, Sherlock was convinced and wanted to prove it. Maybe it was cruel and he would be playing at Irene Adler's level but what did it matter as long as Molly _understood_? He couldn't have her carrying on with this nonsense. John would never have approved but the good doctor wasn't here to play the moral compass.

After going through what was becoming an increasingly boring list of active cases, Molly announced she wanted to take a shower and went to her room.

Sherlock decided to give her a lead time of twenty minutes and for the first time in months, he crossed the Rubicon that was the corridor, and stepped into the bedroom. It wasn't even locked, which mildly surprised him and the sight of the unsecured knob spoke volumes. Trust. Safety.

She was in the midst of changing into fresh clothes when he found her. Her bare back was turned to him and her hands were combing through her streaming hair that smelled of citrus. The towel lay at her feet in a wrinkled puddle of cotton and the lamp cast flattering highlights of her right shoulder, a perfect white curve in the semi-darkness.

He stood at the threshold, gazing at her.

Molly froze, feeling the air grow cold, and slowly turned around to find Sherlock.

Then before she could react or shout in protest, her back was pushed against the wall and his hand held her cheek. Her right arm was pinned to the parapet by his other hand whilst her own was splayed out like a pale, five-pointed star.

"Don't you see…?"

Molly looked stricken.

Without letting go of her arm, Sherlock's left hand descended to her heart and let his fingertips glide along her tepid skin, still fresh and warm from her bath. He could feel its rapid rhythm throbbing from the touch.

"Your pulse is over its resting rate." He measured in a whisper before his eyes trailed over to her face. "Your pupils are dilated."

He drew in closer, so close that her breasts grazed against his shirt. They rose as she took in a shaky breath but she did not move or speak. The inside of his palm cupped her left cheek whilst his thumb hovered above her right eye, a neutral shade of brown that glimmered in the shadows.

"This isn't love, it's only a reaction."

Still, she said nothing.

"Don't you understand?"

Sherlock tightened the hold on Molly's wrist and spread her knees with his leg. Her nose was only a hairbreadth away from touching his as he pressed against her, watching and waiting. There were no limits. He would do what he must to get her to drop this romanticism of the world that she so fervently clung to. Even if it meant bending the rules.

He held her gaze even as his thigh leaned into an unbearably warm recess. A strange sigh escaped her lips, toneless yet dark. She moved against him and so did he, drawn into this nameless and unfamiliar game.

And ironically, that was when _he _got it.

He couldn't touch it or see it but it was here. It was this weight on his conscience, the pull in his stomach, a rush of heat that came from the moment of touch. But this wasn't enough to appease his rationale so he looked at her, this tangible embodiment of all those proverbial sentiments that people found so important.

_She_ is it.

Then just as the realisation hit him, he felt a hand caress his cheek.

Slowly, carefully, he faced her.

She was struggling with something, he could see that. Her eyes conveyed distress—was that longing too? Her fingers danced over to his temple and gently pulled a few wisps of his hair. Then, as if making up her mind, she moved forward and left a searing kiss upon his lips.

He stayed ever so still, not knowing how to react and yet…yet…

She guided him away from the wall, away from sense, and with clasping arms, they fell together in bed. He could feel his shirt and pajamas sliding off, along with his original intent. Their lips came together again and again, magnetised by mutual desire and desperation.

Arms stretching and twisting around their bare backs, they tried to hold onto any part that they could of each other. He breathed hard against her neck as his hand reached down to touch her, sliding in a tentative finger before adding another and changing the pace. His mouth went for her breast, eliciting a gasp hitched somewhere in between pleasure and surprise.

The sheets were wrinkling beneath them.

"I…" Molly whispered but the thought failed to materialise into articulation.

_Need, _Sherlock finished for her, _you need me_.

He gripped her waist to his then forcing her legs apart, he pushed himself in. Reveling at the touch of naked skin along with a feeling that danced along the edge of pain and bliss, she smiled against his collarbone before letting herself go.

"_Stay…_" He rasped.

Resting his forehead atop hers, he could feel tendrils of her hair go moist in sweat. His breaths were growing ragged and short from exertion. She kissed him deeply, hungrily, as though wanting to take every reserve of air he had. Her teeth grazed the crook of his neck as she moved along, burying herself deeper and forcing him to lose control.

Molly's back arched. He pressed down, feeling her tighten and clench which only drove him to push harder. The bed was beginning to creak under the pressure. He tangled his hand into her wet hair, curling the strands along his knuckles. Her breasts heaved as he brought his lips to hers, drinking in her scent until he felt dizzy.

He fell.

And what an excruciatingly painful, _exquisite_ fall.

It robbed him in an instant of all clarity, reason, and reality. Gravity returned in slow intervals and bodies entwined, he held her to him until he felt the bed meet his back and his mind drift into that semi-consciousness state called…?

He closed his eyes, fighting to regain breath and order, and just as the streams of thought flooded back, the most beautiful woman in the world came into view and with a seraphic smile, left a kiss in her wake.


	4. Chapter 4

.

.oOo.

.

_January_

"...why did you kiss me?" Sherlock asked Molly once.

"It was the only way to make you understand."

"Understand _what_?" Her ambiguity was frustrating.

"What it's like to be loved, to feel complete."

.

.oOo.

.

"Sherlock...?"

"Mm?" He murmured as he lay on the pillow, unwilling to greet the morning sun.

Molly's hand crept up to his cheek. He could feel her forefinger brushing against the bone then travel to his brow before crossing over to his temple. She stirred under the coverlet as her legs grazed his calves.

"Can you promise me something?"

Sherlock gave a grunt of an assent, anything to make her stop talking really. He had stayed up late and crawled into Molly's bed long after midnight.

"Promise me that when this is all over, if all goes well, you'll come back for me."

He opened his eyes.

Quietly, he turned around to find Molly lying next to him and curled in her blanket. The wet trail of a tear had already stained her cheek with its glistening mark.

"I love you." She confessed into the pillow. "I love you so much, it's like everything's been burned into me. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you—"

He pulled her hard against him.

In quiet relief, Molly rested her head in the hollow of his neck and allowed herself to lay in embrace when she felt Sherlock kiss her hair. Then somehow that kiss spread in descending order to her temple, her cheek, her neck...

When she found his lips, she clung to his chest as he stripped off her night clothes, starting with her bottoms then pulling her shirt away. The rest of her undergarments fell unceremoniously in little heaps around the bed. He touched her thigh and started his descent, trailing the length of her body until his mouth reached—

A sigh escaped her.

Molly grasped a handful of Sherlock's soft, dark curls. They ran against her palm so beautifully that she didn't know what she liked more: this or the coarse warmth of his tongue as it tasted and explored. A deep tremour ran throughout her when she felt his fingers slip in. She bucked her hips forward, wanting more and growing dizzy with incessant need.

Power came in many forms, Sherlock had learned in his experiences. A throne, a series of bank accounts to hide behind, or the hand that held a gun but this...he intently watched the girl writhing before him. Every move he made was gratified by a throaty groan and a tightening of her hand in his hair. This was power and could he ever have imagined it to be so intoxicating? It was no wonder why people were driven to throes of anger in being denied or betrayed by such an intimate experience although he could never understand why some would kill for it.

Her hips suddenly jerked as he licked a slit of her flesh. When she finally came, he didn't wait for her to recover and rising, his shadow cast over hers. His hard, lengthy tip pressed against her stomach whilst he cupped her face with his hands.

"Sherlock." She whispered, and in that moment, he forced himself inside in one merciless thrust then drew back for another.

A wonderful kind of ache overtook her. Hands shaking, she wrapped her arms around his back and ground her hips against his to meet and take every push, every pull. The knowledge that this was Sherlock, of all people, in her bed gave her a thrill like never before. Her colleagues had always maintained that when it came to interpersonal connections, he was as cold and unfeeling like the corpses that they locked away in the morgue. No one expected, let alone believed, he was capable of passion. If only she could describe to them the sheer intensity of his kisses, the wild beat of his heart.

High, unrestrained whimpers escaped her as his pace quickened. She was nearing to the close.

"Promise me." Molly grasped Sherlock's neck then gave a sharp cry as he pushed himself deeper, filling her up so much that their skins felt as though they had been melded into one. "_Please..._"

Her entire body lurched forward, wracked with the heat of pleasure, and all that held her on was his grip as he heaved all of his weight. He threw back his head, brows coming together as a raw, maddening savagery drove him to the point of ecstasy. The line of self-control was wearing down to a thread as his body hit against hers over and over and over, demanding to be let in and conquer everything.

"_I promise._" His voice staggered.

The thread snapped apart.

All sense of balance seemed lost as his hips rolled with hers and he gasped for air, a moment that shot him to an exhilarating height of euphoria that he did not think was possible to attain. His shoulders slackened as he descended back to earth and collapsing into the safe haven of her arms, utterly spent.

Then just before sleep could claim them both, Sherlock roused himself to bring his lips to her forehead.

_I promise, _he vowed as his eyes drew to a close, _I promise. _

.

.oOo.

.

_February_

The sound of violin strings singing in the winter afternoon added an airy sweetness reminiscent of spring itself that Molly not only fell even more deeply in love with the musician, she spoiled herself silly by pleading with Sherlock to play a piece once a day. He indulged her with the Baroque masters and Romantics. An occasional Ennio Morricone would be heard every now and then_. _And Bach...how she had grown to adore the second movement of BWV 1043.

She listened intently as she prepared Sunday roast in the kitchen. A savoury confusion of herbs and roasted vegetables was steaming on the counter. The chicken and Yorkshire pudding were ten minutes away from being done.

Sherlock had his back to her, his eyes seemingly fixed on the grey skies as he traversed his bow in melodic time.

Days seemed to blur as they fell into what felt like a deliriously happy routine of lovemaking and a kind of domestic bliss. When it came down to it, he was a man of simple taste. Between sex, spending time with Molly, and solving one crime after the other, he should have been perfectly content.

But he wasn't.

The one-year anniversary of his faked suicide was approaching and he was nowhere close to tracing Moriarty's origins. He still didn't understand whether the madman had been the architect or another pawn in someone else's grand scheme. The financial statements had yielded little information as most of the figures had been fabricated by some lowly accounting firm. There was a suggestive trail leading to Switzerland and New York but specifics? That would require further due diligence.

Which also meant travel and close contact with dangerous, life-threatening situations.

_You're on the side of the angels, _Moriarty's voice taunted from memory.

Yes, and if were he to fall again, he could not—_would never—_let one of them go down with him.

"Sherlock? It's time to eat."

The violin went silent.

Sherlock gazed at the clouds, inwardly struggling with something frightening and insensible to him. Why was he feeling so stupidly happy when his very name was obliterated and he was nowhere close to regaining it? And why, why, why..._her? _Why was it he couldn't think past her lovely shoulders and that passionate cry of hers when she came?

He gathered the bow and instrument in one hand as he stepped closer to the window. The city lay before him in a picture of quaint peace lined with cobblestone streets and wrought-iron lamp-posts. Everything was all right with the world but it felt different to him. _He_ was different. He couldn't continue on with the hiding. It was an indulgence he could not afford. The stagnancy had to end.

But...

He turned to find Molly waiting for him.

"Won't you join me?" She smiled.

"Yes, of course." He nodded, trying to smile back. "I'll be there in a minute."

.

.oOo.

.

* * *

20 February 2012

20:32

Sender: [Unlisted]

Recipient: Holmes, Mycroft S. SIS

Subject: [None]

_It's time. I need to be moved._

* * *

21 February 2012

0:17

Re: Subject: [None]

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft S. SIS

Recipient: [Unlisted]

_Ready when you are. Does Briar Rose know?_

* * *

21 February 2012

0:22

Re: Re: Subject: [None]

Sender: [Unlisted]

Recipient: Holmes, Mycroft S. SIS

_No. Keep it that way, no contact and no info._

* * *

21 February 2012

0:27

Re: Re: Re: Subject: [None]

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft S. SIS

Recipient: [Unlisted]

_There will be questions._

* * *

21 February 2012

0:29

Re: Re: Re: Re: Subject: [None]

Sender: [Unlisted]

Recipient: Holmes, Mycroft S. SIS

_Thorns are needed to protect Sleeping Beauty's tower from the dragon. Keep Cogsworth, Lumiere, and Mrs. Potts safe._

* * *

21 February 2012

0:31

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Subject: [None]

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft S. SIS

Recipient: [Unlisted]

_Are the Disney references necessary? The thorns were to keep the prince away, not the dragon, you're remembering it wrong. You have my word. All will be under SIS watch._

* * *

.

.

.oOo.

.

.

_March_

An empty, familiar silence greeted Molly whenever she entered her flat.

What had once been her personal living space now served as a mausoleum. Shadows of Sherlock's presence marked every place. His dressing gown lay tossed across the couch, echoing his form. An untouched toothbrush sat forlornly on the bathroom sink. One of his shirts remained on her bedroom floor. Even the pillows smelled of him.

_It must have been a dream,_ Molly vaguely concluded as she sat in her sparkling white kitchen where a long time ago Sherlock had stood right where she was, waiting for her with an omelette.

He had left during the night, sometime late last month. At first she thought he had just stepped out for air. His clothes and even his precious violin remained. When she got home from work, he still wasn't there and after going through a series of panic attacks that lasted for days, she realised that he had done it after all.

He had disappeared.

It had been too good to be true.

How stupid, so fucking stupid, she had been. Then again, he never told her he loved her so she had only herself to blame for the miserable state she was in now. In her eagerness, she had failed to see the truth of the matter and saw only what she wanted to see.

That Sherlock actually cared, that he had been in love.

Molly turned to the direction of her living room and immediately regretted it when she caught sight of the violin and bow, carefully lain in its box. The violin that she had, with an extraordinary amount of brazenness and uncharacteristic selfishness, stolen from 221B on a visit to see John.

Tears came unbidden to her eyes. Feeling lost in despair, that she had never been loved or would ever be loved by the man she cared for so much, she lowered her head onto the table and sobbed.

.

.

.oOo.

.

.

"I...I don't understand."

And really, Molly didn't. She may have been stupid about Sherlock but not contraceptives. This could not be happening. It...just...

The sterile paper crinkled underneath her as she drew the thin drape gown a little tighter around her heart to protect herself against the chill exam room that smelled of rubbing alcohol.

"You were taking them regularly, of course? Roughly the same time and day? Never missed?" The nurse practitioner sat opposite of Molly on a stool.

Molly hesitated. She thought she had been taking regular doses...perhaps not at the same time...and yes, she had skipped one pill but made up for it the next day...

"It's all right." The nurse gave her a knowing look when she caught the hesitancy. "This happens all the time. You're a doctor, you know how it is."

Molly could not reply.

"Well then," the nurse brought her hands to a brisk clap, "you have several options at this point which I'm sure you are already aware. There are some excellent private practices we can refer you to and of course, there is this."

She handed a card.

"This outpatient centre is the closest to your home. You can call them for an appointment if their services are what you need." The nurse started off when she saw the look on Molly's face. "Oh don't worry love, no one's going to judge you. I know it's difficult for you right now. Whatever you choose, it'll be all right in the end."

.

.oOo.

.

One Tuesday afternoon, Tarelton Clinic received three calls. The first two were, what the receptionist at the desk deemed to be a prank as the caller kept hanging up, except the last.

"_How can we help you?_"

"Yes, hi...I..." Molly's voice shook. "I want to make an appointment."

"_Certainly. What day and for which service would you like to request?_"

Her mouth was going dry and her head was spinning out of control. _I can't do this...can I really be a good mum...I'm supposed to be married or engaged at least...what if I screw this up...what if I can't...what do I do? What do I do? There's no one who can help me..._

"_Hello? Are you still there?_"

Molly closed her eyes.

"_Hello?" _

With trembling fingers, she pressed on the touchscreen and ended the call.

Then, slowly, one by one, from memory, she dialed back.

.

.

.

.oOo.

.

.

.

"_SIS. Division and extension name please." _

"I need to speak to Mycroft Holmes."

"_Right away." _

_._

_._

_._

.oOo.

.

.

.

_June _

_Aix-en-Provence, France _

The lush green of the valley swept Molly into contentment every time she let her gaze fall to the view of her bedroom window.

In lazy abandon, she rolled around the bed linens and managed to rise albeit her localised weight gain made it an ungainly maneuver. Then again, she was always clumsy these days due to the pregnancy.

No longer tethered to a demanding work schedule, her days were haphazard but a semblance of a routine remained. She took her breakfast in the salon, always choosing the chair facing the window so she could feel the sun on her face and admire the world framed by antique lace curtains. Afternoons were spent browsing the internet or going on walks in the forest. From time to time, she liked to go into the town so she could explore the old church or buy an assortment of local offerings from the _plein-air _market. She went further into Aix for her doctor's appointments and to pick up items at the pharmacy.

Her new home was a four-bedroom house deep in the French countryside, a pretty piece of real-estate she knew she could never have afforded without Mycroft's assistance.

_Good luck Margaret. _

That had been the last words Molly heard from Mycroft before she was whisked away in a private car that drove her to Heathrow in the dead of night. He had been—for lack of a better word, _kind—_to see her off on the flight en route to Charles de Gaulle. He had said little during their conversation in March and even less in the ride to the airport.

If Mycroft had been cold and seemed uninterested in her well-being, he compensated for it by securing her with a safe-house in one of the most beautiful locations in the world. When she found out there had been a nursery built, thoughtfully furnished and accented with rows of toys, she almost broke her promise to not contact Mycroft so she could thank him.

_You understand that you can never return home, _Mycroft had warned her, _you cannot reach out to anyone. Not even your family, friends, or me. This is your best chance. _

_Do you think I could ever see him again? _Molly remembered asking.

There seemed to be little pity or empathy in Mycroft's eyes when he answered in a matter-of-fact voice that he didn't think so.

The price of safety these days demanded a total annihilation of the self.

The knowledge caused Molly to be even more thoroughly invested in the growth and development of her children. Like her transition to living in France, the fall to love had begun in slow stumbles and it wasn't until she heard the first heartbeats from the ultrasounds that she finally understood she was going to be a mother. She clung to the twins as she carried them close, wondering what they would look like.

Would they have their father's chromatic blue eyes or her dimples? Would one or both possess any musical virtuosity? Could they learn to love her too?

The thought of Sherlock pained Molly these days but it was tempered by measured joy and the promise of a new future. It would be the three of them: her and the boys. She would bring them to this house and make it into a real home. They would get plenty of fresh air, sunshine, and exercise—the best things for a happy child, her mother had once taught her. And, if she could help it, no refined sugar in the boys' diets.

They would go to the local school, Molly had decided. French at class and English at home. She had cherished ambitions that if she ever were to have children, they would attend one of the prestigious boarding schools and go on to attain brilliant A-levels that would entice Oxford or Cambridge. But as this was no longer possible, she hoped they would do well enough to be accepted into a _grand école. _

Yes, wouldn't that be perfect?

Molly smiled as she rested a hand atop the rising globe of her stomach. A set of mixing bowls sat on the slab of marble that was the kitchen counter and a handful of squash blossoms lay waiting to be battered. She was swirling a tablespoon of olive oil onto a skillet, listening to the singsong call of a summer lark when she felt someone breathing down her neck.

She didn't even have time to react.

A tiny pinprick of a needle jabbed into her bare shoulder.

She stared down at her hands and the unprepared meal. The lark was still singing yet its notes seemed to slow and stretch unnaturally. Her legs folded onto themselves and when she clumsily reached out to break the fall, a pair of strong arms caught her, locking her to a dreamless sleep from which she would awaken to a new kind of hell.

.

.

.

.oOo.

.

.

.

_Present Day_

_Geneva, Switzerland_

The Swiss banker M. Charles Blois had been tired this morning.

A crinkle in the space where Monsieur Blois' brow met the nose bridge coupled with the deep-set frown lines suggested an emotional crisis of some kind. More than likely, Sherlock had guessed and he knew his guesses were accurate, it stemmed from a domestic issue involving either a demanding wife or rebellious daughter. He knew it had to be a female judging from the voice he overhead on the banker's mobile but which one?

That detail didn't matter, only that this "family problem" had induced a lapse in the banker's memory to not lock his computer with the passcode before going home.

The business suit chafed along Sherlock's skin as he slinked into the banker's office at the dead of night. His curly hair was combed back in an effort to appear the metropolitan young professional. Although the firm was open all day to its employees, he judged that he had less than an hour before the traders came and discover the incapacitated security guards at the front.

After five months of exhaustive searching that involved being holed in a series of nameless havens, Sherlock had managed to trace back a hidden line of cash flows that trickled into an account held by a private bank. It was cliché, Sherlock could barely contain his scorn as he hacked into the bank's searching system. Geneva of all places…could Moriarty and whoever was backing him be so unoriginal?

"Who were you working for?" Sherlock murmured as the list of names grew. "Who got the money…?"

A text box suddenly appeared on the screen.

/SERVER REQUEST/: VIDEO CONFERENCE/: ACCEPT OR DECLINE?

Sherlock withdrew from the keyboard. Immediately he looked up from the desk but there was no one in the office. Only the drones and hums of fax machines. He glanced at the monitor but the box was flickering as the words changed.

/SERVER REQUEST/:MESSAGE/: YOUR BRIAR ROSE SMELLS SWEET.

The sight of the codename sent ice water running through Sherlock's veins. Something, a feeling very similar to when he saw John at the swimming centre with the bombs attached to his jacket, sent his mind into a whirlwind of confusion and anger. This had to have been a mistake. It had to be, Mycroft had given him his word. Mycroft, the ever responsible guardian of the nation, would not be so careless.

He had left the girl months ago and made damn well sure that his tracks were covered. He had done everything—_everything—_to distance himself as far away from that little flat in Kensington Court.

His jaw tightened.

He had always prided himself on being one step ahead and above whatever tactics his opponents would use to distract him from the goal at hand. He had never been a gracious loser and he wasn't planning on becoming one now, not when the stakes became so terribly high.

/SERVER REQUEST/: VIDEO CONFERENCE/: ACCEPT OR DECLINE?

Sherlock typed his answer.

The screen darkened and moments later, the unfamiliar face of his adversary came into light.

"_Good morning Mr. Holmes…" _


	5. Chapter 5

The first hour after the video conference was the longest that Sherlock felt he had endured in his entire life.

He raced out of the bank and went straight to his hiding place, an unobtrusive flat at the heart of Geneva. Slamming the door shut and not even bothering to change out of his costume, he flew into restless pacing as his mind tried to process what he just saw.

Roland Sabren was a man long of limb and resources, whose very face was the image of power gained by ruthlessness. One look had been enough for Sherlock to realise in an instant that he didn't have to finish his search at the bank. It had been Sabren that Moriarty answered to and had been filling his coffers for.

_How did he know I was here? _Sherlock wondered darkly even though he knew his actions tonight and that of many nights had brought him to this. He had operated with utmost secrecy but the fact remained that he had been prying and someone had managed to trace the activity back to him. Perhaps when he initiated the bank's search engine that had triggered an alarm...

He dug his hands into his hair.

Sabren's suit was a classically tailored English cut, the kind that high-ranked government officials and businessmen favoured but the style and cloth were too rich for either class. He wore no wedding ring indicating he was either unmarried or a widower. There hadn't even been a watch of any kind, unusual for a man of his station but not for his age. He was an old-school boy who disliked ostentatious displays of wealth, no doubt that he came from aristocratic stock. A titled peer was likely but Sherlock was drawing a blank. He never followed politics and the peerage as they were subjects that merited little interest.

The house...the house was an old one, Sherlock could tell from what glimpses he had been afforded during the feed. It was most likely Sabren's main residence but would he be that bold to hold a hostage in such an open location?

_No, _Sherlock caught himself. No, this was a man who had employed James Moriarty of all people to handle his unsavoury subsidiaries. He was cunning and discreet, he would never make the mistake of imprisoning Molly at his primary home where so many people had access to it: maids, butlers, gardeners, assistants, even the press.

_Molly. _

His hand swung out to grip a desk chair as he remembered the live stream. Molly, sitting by herself, and heavily pregnant. _Pregnant. _How could she be pregnant? No, that wasn't right...there had been that time and others...

Could it be really true? She looked near to the last term and he had been with her all through winter. But how could he have _not known_? She should have been watched carefully and if _anything _had happened, he knew Mycroft would have been able to get in touch with him.

So why hadn't he?

In a fit of rage, Sherlock kicked the chair aside.

_Why wasn't I told?! _He felt a vicious need to blame Molly as well as Mycroft. They had kept the pregnancy from him and never explained _why_. He didn't know what he was angry at. The deception, their stupidity in thinking ignorance was going to "protect" him somehow, or SIS' failure to safeguard a single individual.

But then, Sherlock had to concede even in his fury, that wasn't like Molly. Molly, the girl with beautiful eyes who rescued him from death, prepared breakfast for him in the mornings, brought case after case each month for his benefit, and made love with him. It was not in her nature to be manipulative so the only other suspect was Mycroft.

Then there was the baby...

Or rather, his _sons. _It was hard to discern which fact was more overwhelming than the other. That he was an impending father or that Molly was carrying twins. Twins did not run in his family so this was most likely a curse inherited from Molly's predecessors.

Sherlock shut his eyes as he felt the pressure mounting. There were now three lives at stake, two of them being his own children. He had never felt this way toward the countless victims in criminal cases. Death was a natural consequence of life. He had never viewed the dead with a sense of humanity which made it easy for him to casually peruse through murders, rapes, and thefts as though he were looking for a good book to read.

People died all the time and what did it matter if some passed from this life earlier or in a more violent manner than others? He didn't even feel guilty about the old woman and the dozen who were blown up by Moriarty. The fatalities were attributed to the woman's thoughtlessness and no one could accuse him of not acting in time—he had devoted every resource in figuring out Moriarty's game of Blind-Man's buff.

God only knew what he had sacrificed to keep Molly away from danger and she was in her dire predicament because Mycroft had failed to provide adequate protection.

The thought brought Sherlock to a low extreme. But then again, Mycroft was the only one who had answers and he had to see him but Sabren had made that a contraindication. He racked his mind to recall the conversation in its exact words.

_The conclusion I have drawn from these fruitless searches is that once again, you are in the possession of an item that does not belong to you...I have an excellent reason to suspect you and whether you intentionally or unintentionally have it, I want it back...you have one week to find and deliver my treasure. _

Searches. An item, whether he intentionally or unintentionally had it, a treasure. These were the phrases that stuck out in Sherlock's mind. _He _had an item? When he had left Molly's flat last spring, he hadn't taken anything with him, not even his clothes or violin. Was it knowledge that Sabren was referring to, something he had inside his head?

_You will find that I do not indulge in games. _

Sherlock paused, remembering Sabren's demeanour and knew the man was telling the truth. Sabren was straight forward but why did he not tell him _exactly _what to look for? An item _he _intentionally or unintentionally possessed? In a blinding flash, his memory was thrown back to the day Moriarty had been released from trial and visited him at Baker Street. He could picture the madman sitting across from him, his dark eyes focused in unnatural intensity as he carved "I.O.U" into an apple. Could Moriarty have left something at his flat?

Sherlock wasn't sure but there were two things that were very clear to him. He could not do this alone and, worse still, he had to go back.

He had to return to 221B.

.

.oOo.

.

The flight from Geneva was short although it did nothing to alleviate Sherlock's mood. As he sat in the plane, he went through a mental inventory of sorts to remember and catalogue every object of his that he had left behind at Baker Street. Anything of notable interest, that is.

There were over three hundred books that he personally owned and had acquired over the years. His violin had been a memento from his university days but it wasn't at 221B, it was in Molly's possession. If Sabren thought that was somehow a 'treasure,' his men would have recognised and taken it but they hadn't. Then clothes, papers, laboratory equipment, and an odd assortment of trinkets.

When Sherlock landed in the early evening and stepped into a cab that would take him to his old flat, he sat in total quiet as he absorbed the sights of London from the backseat of a car. His city greeted him with its historical buildings and cosmopolitan flair. The weather, although being summer, was cold but not as damp. Switzerland had offered him fairer skies and marvelous landscapes but this grey city was home.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock found himself standing in front of 221B. His short auburn hair, which was now turning ashy as the dye wore out, provided enough of a cover for his appearance. To lessen the chance of being recognised, he elected not to wear his favourite longcoat in exchange for slim trousers and a simple blazer.

Speedy's Sandwich Shop was still open and Sherlock had seen Mrs. Hudson through the window, seemingly in a deep conversation with one of the deli workers. He slipped inside the foyer undetected and was grateful for the distraction. He wasn't sure how he could handle Mrs. Hudson's reaction if she were to have seen him; one emotional reunion was enough for today.

As he climbed up the steps, he was awashed in nostalgia. Instinctively, he let his hand glide along the crepe wallpaper and let it seamlessly go over to the thick pine door with its brass knocker. Glancing at his watch to assure himself of the time, he enfolded his left hand and briskly knocked.

"Just a minute!" The voice on the other side called.

Sherlock held his breath.

"Is that you, Mrs. Hudson? You could let yourself in!" A series of footsteps could be heard, quickening in pace when the door swung open.

For a moment, John thought he must be dreaming.

"Hello John."

Sherlock observed a myriad of emotions running across the doctor's face. There was shock, flashes of confused joy, bewilderment, and—was that betrayal he saw?

To his annoyance, he could see John's eyes get glassy and braced himself for a hug when instead a hard fist caught him square across the jaw.

.

.oOo.

.

The knobby bag of frozen peas rolled around Sherlock's lower left cheek in an attempt to cover as much surface area with its coldness. He sat in one of armchairs, nursing his injury. John had taken the other and kept throwing glances in his way as though he wasn't quite sure if Sherlock was real or not.

"Will you stop staring?" Sherlock switched the sides of the rudimentary ice pack. "This better not bruise, you'll ruin my disguise."

"What disguise?" John snapped, immediately brought back to the present. "You dyed your hair in that stupid colour and changed clothes. I recognised you in an instant."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was a precaution."

"And it was a bad job, I can see the roots coming back already."

"It was my first time using dye!" Sherlock cast aside the peas. "I didn't come here to be criticised for my looks. Or to be punched."

John shook his head. "No, I don't know why you came back. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you did, but that..._stunt..._of yours..." His face whitened as he remembered the day he saw what he believed to be Sherlock's body fall seven stories then meet the pavement in a sickening crunch.

Sherlock looked away, feeling guilty at last.

"I'm sorry." He was careful not to make eye contact with John lest he would be assaulted again. "I had no other choice but to make everyone believe I died. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson were threatened unless I did what Moriarty wanted."

"You could have told me." John replied testily.

"I couldn't risk that."

"Since when did you ever obey that maniac?" John angrily pointed out. "I could've helped! You didn't have to do it all by yourself, Sherlock. Greg and I—we both could have protected you."

"I was already being protected."

"Really?" John scoffed in derision. "By who? Mycroft? What a great choice, entrusting your safety to the brother who sold you out—"

"It was Molly."

"Sorry, what?" John did a full turnaround in his seat.

Sherlock averted his eyes. Here at last was the moment of truth and he found himself struggling to elucidate let alone reply. Losing the power of speech was not something he experienced regularly and he didn't like it at all. He knew he looked foolish in being unable to articulate his current situation.

"What did you say?" John watched him closely so he wouldn't miss what he thought he heard.

"Molly." Sherlock ground out. "She hid me for almost a year at her flat. That's why I came back to England. She's in danger, someone's taken her."

"_Danger_? How?"

Sherlock was irritated by the need to explain but he went through it, detail by detail, starting from his investigations on Moriarty's background, how he traced the cash funds to Geneva, when Sabren found him, and the live stream of Molly being held captive. John listened intently, his expressing going from shock to deep anxiety all throughout the retelling.

"But I don't understand." The confusion in John's voice was palpable. "Why did Sabren grab Molly? How did he even know about her and the fact that she helped you? Why didn't he threaten me, Greg, or Mrs. Hudson like Moriarty did? He knew about us, he knew where we were this entire time."

Sherlock did not answer, knowing in a few moments John would figure it out without his help.

"Unless she was different." John leveled his eyes with Sherlock. "Unless she was more important to you. Is that it?"

Sherlock curled his hand into a fist. "Molly is pregnant."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"I didn't know."

"..."

"She's carrying twins. They're mine, I checked. The dates match up unless Molly went on other nocturnal adventures whilst I was away."

"..."

"Don't look at me like that."

"I don't believe you." John declared. He made no attempt to hide how stunned he was. "This is…" He paused before bursting out: "You don't even _like _her! You've always been horrible to her, sometimes it was borderline cruel, and you expect me to take your word that she's now _pregnant with your kids?_"

"Yes."

John eyed him in incredulity. "My god, what's happened to you? You've…" He faltered when he saw how quiet Sherlock had become. "You're different…you're not the same anymore."

"Can we concentrate on the issue at hand?" Sherlock flared.

"This explains everything." John put his head in his hands as he started to remember all the interactions he had had with Molly in the past year. "Jesus…she left Bart's months ago, I haven't seen her since. She told me she was moving away and asked me if I could take care of her cat."

"What?" Sherlock's head shot up. "Toby's here?"

He looked around and sure enough, he found the cat sitting in lazy abandon on the dining room table. Out of all the inhabitants in the flat, Toby seemed the least concerned about Molly's disappearance.

"He's been with me for months now, he's practically mine as it is."

"I don't care about that." Sherlock rose from the chair to grab John's shoulders. "When did Molly visit you? What did she say? What did she do that day?"

"Calm down!" John attempted to back away but Sherlock held him fast.

"_What did she say?_"

"I told you! She came over in March and said she was moving—"

"Where?" Sherlock demanded.

"I don't know, I think she said Edinburgh, maybe. I don't remember, honestly." John said somewhat apologetically, leading Sherlock to sigh in frustration.

"Molly would never have left Toby behind if she was being hidden in England, she would have taken him with her." Sherlock mused aloud. "She must have known she was pregnant at that point. When she told you she was moving…oh, this is Mycroft all over." He exhaled in exasperation. "She must have gone to him for help and he took her out of the country. That's why she couldn't bring Toby and asked you to look after him. But Molly—god, how could she be so _stupid?_"

John's brows rose.

"She was never supposed to tell you that she was leaving!" Sherlock angrily explained. "When you disappear, you can't communicate with friends and family, that's the first mistake people make. I think Sabren has been keeping tabs on you, Lestrade, and probably Mycroft in case I resurfaced. Someone from Sabren's side probably saw her leave the cat with you and figured out she was being moved. That's how they must have found out about her."

He fell into a brooding silence after this conclusion but John, seeing this, was having none of it.

"Why did you call Molly stupid?"

"What?" Sherlock snapped out of his dark reverie. "Why are you dwelling on an irrelevant detail? Haven't you been listening?"

"Yeah, I have." John glared at him. "And what I'm getting from you is that somehow, Molly is responsible for having been kidnapped."

"She led them right to her." Sherlock fired back. "This whole mess—all of it—was a mistake and would never have happened if she just had been careful."

"_Mistake_?" John repeated as he got up from his chair, visibly riled. "Is that what Molly is to you, a _'mistake'?_"

When Sherlock didn't respond, John turned away, repulsed by what he saw as callous indifference to a woman in mortal peril. It was true that as Sherlock's friend, he was used to the lack of care and aloofness. But passing time and familiarity would never obscure the fact that their profession, however Sherlock wanted to make it out to be with his deductions, was a very human one. They witnessed pain and suffering derived from horrific, if not tragic, circumstances on a daily basis.

After everything, John thought, Sherlock would have understood that and yet here was another instance of damning proof that his best friend, simply, was heartless.

"That 'mistake' sheltered and protected you, you said so yourself. It was obvious to everyone she held a torch for you and it was a long time, Sherlock. Maybe, yes, I can see her loving you too although God knows why. But even after all…this…" John gestured emptily in the air to signify all the terrible events that had happened in the year. "…does she really mean nothing to you?"

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock coldly replied. "I am actively trying to rescue her and I'd appreciate it if you just shut up and help me. I've got something Sabren wants and I have to find it—"

"Sod the bloody work!" John cut him off, outraged. "Molly—_the mother of your children_—has been taken _hostage_, you bastard. This isn't an 'interesting case' or a game. She is _imprisoned _by a psychotic killer that you've managed to attract—_Jesus._" He lowered his head, stopping himself before he said something unforgivable.

"Are you finished?" Sherlock's voice was like ice.

Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to the book stack. "Remember the Black Lotus bank case? The one with Van Coon and Lukis? We have their books still? I think one of them is of interest to Sabren, did you return the books?" He turned to John who still hadn't raised his head.

When he finally did, the look in John's eyes was dark and full of blame.

"Molly never led anyone to her, it was you, Sherlock." He started for the door. "And if she dies, that's on you too."

A turn of the knob and a cross over the threshold later, Sherlock was left alone to an empty flat and a burden of guilt to shoulder in that three lives were hanging in the balance held by his hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Four hours and fifteen minutes later, John returned home to find Sherlock in a living room that had been turned to complete disarray.

Every piece of furniture had been upturned. Books were strewn about and piled high on every open surface area. Papers created a new layer of carpet, clothes lay in jumbles of cotton all around, and to top it off, every item in the kitchen had been removed from all their cabinets. Sherlock sat in the middle of the storm, eyes wide and alert, angrily surveying the mess.

"Oh, you're back." Sherlock noted as John walked in, looking ready to start a row. "You're about twelve hours early. You usually don't return until the next morning when you're mad at me. Then again, you always stay over at a girlfriend's place so I take it that you haven't had much luck in the dating scene these days since you're here ahead of schedule."

"What in God's name are you doing?!" John demanded.

"It's not here. The item." Sherlock replied. "I've looked everywhere. Moriarty didn't leave anything behind and there's nothing Sabren would be remotely interested in."

John was about to enter into a tirade when he noticed his bedroom door wide open. "Did you go into my room?"

"Yes. I didn't think you had anything Sabren would want but I had to be sure. By the way, you should buy new pants. The elastics are wearing off on some of them—"

"_Sherlock!_"

"Don't be so outraged. I did us a favour by doing a full sweep of the flat. There aren't any cameras or mics so this place is safe from surveillance."

"I won't help you." John looked at Sherlock squarely in the face.

Sherlock had not expected that. He drew a breath, momentarily at a loss of words, and was about to protest when John continued.

"I'm going to help her. I'm doing this for _her_, for Molly, do you understand? She's a good person and doesn't deserve this."

Sherlock stared at the floor. "I know."

"Do you?" John challenged.

"…"

"Well?"

"Molly is where she is because of me…and you were right." Sherlock's voice was low. "If she dies, it's on me. I knew that from the very beginning."

But John wasn't satisfied. "You're not just saying this because it's what I want to hear?"

"Does it look like I am?" Sherlock faced him.

After a long while, John broke away from his gaze. "No, I suppose you're not." He watched Sherlock carefully. "I'm sorry. I was out of line. It's just…"

"What?"

"I had to be sure."

"Be sure of what?"

"That you love and care about Molly."

Sherlock gazed after John, not knowing how to reply, when he remembered something.

"When you were at the cemetery, you said I was the best man and the most human person that you ever met. If you still believe that, then you shouldn't have any reason to debate this."

John was taken aback. "How…how did you…" He stopped when he realised Sherlock must have been watching him that day. He pursed his lips in embarrassment. "I did mean what I said, Sherlock. That hasn't changed."

"Then it should be obvious to you." Sherlock began to turn away, feeling no need to explain further.

"Um, yeah, I guess…" John began when a thought struck him. Slowly, he started to grin.

"You're smiling. Why are you smiling?"

"Well…" John started to laugh, finally understanding. " 'When you rule out the impossible, whatever remains is the truth.' Isn't that right?" There was a triumphant glint in his eye.

"Don't use my words against me." Sherlock snapped.

"Oh come on, there's no need to be bashful." John was having a ball. "I get that you'd be awkward about this stuff. It's no wonder you can't even say the word 'love' and 'Molly' in the same sentence."

"Well _you're_ the one who seems to think I have the emotional capacity of a sea sponge."

"Huh, I wonder why."

Sherlock glared at him. "Can we focus on the investigation?"

"Whatever you say." John was still smiling. "I'm all ears, Sherlock."

.

.oOo.

.

"Right, so here's what we've got."

John pointed his pencil to a fairly organised diagram of news clippings and pictures linked by lines of masking tape on the dining room table.

"According to the Internet, it seems that our arch nemesis is the Duke of Kendal. You didn't tell me he was a duke."

"Why does that even _matter_? Title or no title, he was in league with Moriarty." Sherlock paced around the room.

"It says on Wikipedia that he has a seat in the House of Lords and he's a major philanthropist. _The Guardian_ reported that he's donated almost ten million pounds to The Prince's Trust, the National Gallery, NHS to promote better coverage for all British citizens, and even to Scotland Yard for a bloody new wing to house their anti-terrorism unit." John set his pencil down in disgust.

"_So_?"

"So that's going to make things difficult for us. He's an influential man, Sherlock, and popular with the press. He's probably got private guards who go with him everywhere and he most likely has multiple residences all over the globe. Molly could be anywhere. She might not even be in the country."

"No, she is. I saw it on the video." Sherlock countered.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"She was sitting in a library. There was wood paneling on the walls with Tudor roses carved on them. You can only find that kind of pattern nowhere else in the world except an English manor. Going by that alone, I'd say the estate has been around since the sixteenth century."

"Okay but there are _hundreds _of houses like that in England." John reminded.

"But how many of them are still standing?" Sherlock persisted. "That narrows down the pool. Honestly John, your knowledge of history is absurdly low."

"Anyway," John rolled his eyes, "you still haven't got the item."

"I know and it's driving me mad." Sherlock was restless.

"What _is it_ anyway?"

"I haven't the slightest clue. Sabren didn't tell me."

John frowned. "Hang on. He tells you to go find what he wants without even letting you know what to look for? What did he say?"

" 'You are in the possession of an item that does not belong to you. I have an excellent reason to suspect you and whether you intentionally or unintentionally have it, I want it back. You have one week to find and deliver my treasure.' " Sherlock repeated from memory.

"And that is _exactly _what he told you?" John asked. "Word for word?"

"More or less."

John paused. "That middle bit…"

"Yes?"

"Well, that part about you 'intentionally or unintentionally having it'…it's a bit odd, isn't it? He's not sure whether you took the thing on purpose or not." John thought for a moment. "It's not the Chinese hairpin we recovered from that bank heist, right? Or the Reichenbach painting?"

"No, both of those are in museums now. If they wanted it, they could've easily stolen it without taking Molly." Sherlock said. "Sabren sounded so certain I had it. Why _would_ he think that, why…?"

_Oh._

"Sherlock?"

"I have to go to Surrey." He grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

"Now wait a minute, just hold on!" John blocked his path. "What did you figure out? Why do you need to go to Surrey?"

"Mycroft lives there. Sabren thinks I have the item because I _inherited_ it but he isn't sure himself what it is! He couldn't tell me what to look for because he didn't know either. That's why he said I might_unintentionally have it. _Mycroft is the only person who has our parents' will."

"You can't go to him." John warned. "Sabren said you couldn't involve Mycroft or he'll hurt Molly."

"Sabren told me not to use MI6's arms. He never said anything about not going to Mycroft to answer some questions." Sherlock tied a scarf around his neck. "Besides, I know how to disappear. It'll be hard for Sabren to track me."

"He found you in Geneva." John looked serious.

"Because I hacked into a banking server that was being monitored by his men. I'm going to a borough, how threatening is that?" Sherlock shrugged his coat on. "I won't be long. Keep your phone on, will you?"

"Sherlock, you have to be careful. I mean, _really_ careful."

"I won't get caught." Sherlock sounded supremely confident but John was not reassured.

"Text me then."

"Right, and one more thing." Sherlock paused before leaving. "Can you be the one to tell Mrs. Hudson I'm still alive? I don't want another dramatic upset like today. Thanks!"

"Are you out of your mind—?!" John started but he was too late.

Sherlock had gone.

.

.oOo.

.

Leeholm was a sixteen-room masterpiece that sat comfortably within the Crown Estate. The house had been renovated from an old property that had been on its last legs and was transformed into a stately home.

Under the watchful eye of Edith Holmes, Mycroft's wife of six years, half the rooms had been divided for reception and the other half into bedrooms. Perhaps to showcase the success of British diplomacy and worldly nature of Mycroft's position, a myriad of international items decorated the house. Bespoke furniture pieces from France, Chinese porcelain vases, high-function American electronics, and an Italian-style garden graced Leeholm with splendour.

The various government officials that Edith and Mycroft had entertained over the years paid lavish compliments every time they visited. Edith, in particular, loved to welcome her guests and was a wonderful hostess.

Unfortunately, she was not in her element tonight.

With a strong sense of purpose, Edith marched into the study where she predictably found Mycroft signing off forms.

"We have a delivery of cheeses that just came in. You'll have to go through them with the shop boy for the party on Saturday. I've had a long day and I'm tired." She got to the point at once.

"My dear, can't you just hand over a cheque?" Mycroft sighed, looking up.

Edith's brows went high in indignation. "I'm afraid I must insist. This is a matter of _national importance_." She emphasised the phrase in mockery.

"Fine." Mycroft threw down his pen. "Send him in."

A few moments later, a tall man dressed in a grocer's uniform carrying a box of wrapped cheeses entered the room. His auburn hair was half-hidden under a hat bearing the logo of a local dairy shop and he wore an apron that covered much of his shirt front.

Mycroft stared. He glanced at Edith, who in turn, gave a knowing nod.

"Thank you Edie. I'll take care of this." Mycroft rose from his desk.

"Do go through the list carefully, Mycroft, and make sure there is no Stilton of any kind. The Earl of Bedford hates it and I don't want to serve it to him on accident." With an imperious turn of her head, Edith swept out of the study and closed it shut behind her.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes." The shop boy took off his cap.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "As if you could pass for a teenage boy. Honestly, Sherlock, act your age."

"I never knew Edie was a good actress." Sherlock tapped his fingers on the edge of the box. "She didn't seem surprised to see me at the door."

"I hope you didn't incapacitate the poor sod who was supposed to deliver Edie's cheeses tonight." Mycroft said in a dismal voice.

"No." Sherlock replied. "I did nick a shipment of theirs. I hope you don't mind getting your order early. You may want to double the amount though, for the cheque."

Mycroft scowled. "I take it you are here about Margaret."

Sherlock eyed the study distrustfully.

"There is no surveillance equipment in my home. I have it swept on a daily basis. You are perfectly safe to say what you want." Mycroft assured.

"Why do you keep calling her Margaret? Her name is Molly."

"I have a distaste for that nickname." Mycroft simply said.

"You know that she was taken."

"Yes." Mycroft's expression darkened. "A regrettable circumstance. I don't know who is responsible but I have several agents on task. I had two SIS men watching her in Provence. They were both killed."

"Roland Sabren." Sherlock answered for him. "He contacted me, he's been Moriarty's supporter this entire time. He has Molly."

"The Duke of Kendal?" Mycroft looked shocked and alarmed.

"You know of him?"

"I've never met him but he's a prominent peer and was a friend of Father's. He's a charitable person, I might add, he has donated substantial sums to a variety of causes."

"So John tells me."

"This is a serious allegation you are making." Mycroft set his jaw. "You are accusing a member of the House of Lords and a beloved philanthropist of not only kidnapping but for orchestrating domestic terrorist attacks. Do you have definitive proof that it was the Duke who took Margaret?"

"_Molly,_ and no, I don't. He reached me through a live video conference. I didn't get a chance to record it but he said he would contact me again." Sherlock explained. He launched into a quick synopsis of the last two days and the epiphany he had at Baker Street.

"So you believe that we have somehow inherited this…artefact…in question?" Mycroft sounded doubtful.

"Which is why I need to see Father's will. Show it to me."

"There is no need for that." Mycroft replied. "The partition of Father's assets was exceedingly simple, he made it that way. He left everything to us in an equal split and unless Sabren is interested in our childhood home at Sussex Downs, which I doubt, that is all that remained."

"If that were true, why didn't I get anything when I reached majority?" Sherlock defiantly pointed out.

"Has your memory deteriorated?" Mycroft's frown deepened. "You were a raging addict back then. You had just been thrown out of a rehabilitation centre and were struggling to finish at Cambridge. Did you honestly think, in your state, that Father and I would have let you access to Mummy's jewels? You would have sold them on the street without a moment's notice."

"I would _never _have done that!" Sherlock angrily denied.

"I beg to differ." Mycroft's eyes were cold.

"And what do you mean 'jewels'? I thought you said there was nothing but the farm."

Mycroft paused. "Father had specified that you were to have her wedding rings and pearl necklace."

"I never received them." Sherlock snapped.

"Why on earth would you ever need Mummy's rings and her pearls?" Mycroft asked in fairness.

"Is that all that he left me?"

"Aside from the house in Sussex Downs, that is all."

"Fine, I want them—everything."

"What do you intend to do with them?"

Sherlock was no longer in any mood to answer to his brother's continued inquiries. "Give it to me."

Mycroft said nothing.

After several minutes of hesitation, he walked over to a replica Renoir painting that hung above the magnificent fireplace in the study. With one touch, the painting swung open to reveal a safe. Pressing his thumb on the biometric scan and punching in a four digit code, the safe hissed then clicked apart.

Mycroft drew out a tiny, black velvet box.

"Edie never knew I had this." He said as he opened the top to reveal a diamond ring and wedding band. He snapped the box shut then handed it to Sherlock. "Don't ever tell her. She will have my head."

"These are just the rings. Where's the necklace?" Sherlock demanded.

"I gave it away." Mycroft said resignedly.

"_You gave it away?_"

"I didn't think…I never thought that you would ever be married." Mycroft explained, having the good grace to look slightly abashed. "I realised that you would have no use for Mummy's jewels. You aren't materialistic and you had no long-term prospects so I gave the pearls to our cousin Mary. It seemed practical at the time, regardless of what Father wanted."

"But you kept the rings!"

Mycroft paused. "I suppose it was for…sentimental reasons."

"This is ridiculous." Sherlock was hardly able to contain his fury. "You've complicated things from the start. You send Molly away to France, a country which SIS has no jurisdiction over, and far from your sight as well as reach. And now you just gave away an important item that could secure her safety to our cousin? Don't you dare tell me you were acting for everyone's best interests."

"I wasn't protecting Margaret from Moriarty's men, Sherlock. I was protecting her from _you_." Mycroft thundered.

The silence between them solidified like ice.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't play the fool, little brother, it doesn't suit you." There was a total lack of sympathy in Mycroft's voice. "Ever since you entered that girl's life, you have brought nothing but instability. Do you have any idea how frightened she was when she came to me in her state?"

"I don't know what this has to do with—"

"You have no empathy." Mycroft interrupted. "You do not care nor do you think about the consequences of your actions. Your career as the 'consulting detective' has led you into life-threatening situations where you have demonstrated many times that you have no regard for your life. In terms of personal finances, you have next to nothing and worse yet, you are a former drug addict. Do you really think you are a man fit to be a father to those children?"

"I never said I was."

"And you never will be." Mycroft surmised. "Which is why I knew it was the best thing to separate Margaret and the children from you. I admit, she wanted me to tell you about the pregnancy but I didn't think that was wise, even if that meant keeping the children's existences a secret. Your presence would have only made it dangerous for them."

"That wasn't your decision to make, Mycroft." Sherlock replied icily.

"Margaret's well-being, and that of my nephews, became my concern the moment she walked into my office." Mycroft responded with equal coldness. "I gave her a home in one of the safest parts of the world and had people looking after her. It was your activities in Geneva that led Sabren to her being taken and my men being killed. If anything, I would say that we are all paying for your arrogance and alienation of others…and that, Sherlock, is an incredibly unfair sacrifice. Wouldn't you say?"

.

.oOo.

.

* * *

_26 June_

_17:55_

_It's me. I need a favour. – [Unlisted]_

* * *

_26 June_

_17:56_

_What's going on? – J_

* * *

_26 June_

_17:58_

_I'm heading back now. Go to the financial district. Pelham Securities ASAP – [Unlisted]_

* * *

_26 June_

_18:02_

_What's there? - J_

* * *

_26 June_

_18:03_

_M's been stupid. He gave something away and I need it back. – [Unlisted]_

* * *

_26 June_

_18:04_

_Am I supposed to meet someone? –J_

* * *

_26 June_

_18:05_

_My cousin. Mary Morstan. Her mobile's +44 01932 9690_

_She's got a necklace that belongs to me and I want it back. – [Unlisted]_

* * *

_26 June 18:06_

_You own a necklace? – J_

* * *

_26 June 18:06_

_Piss off –[Unlisted]_

* * *

.

.oOo.

.

The invitation seemed like a ruse.

Molly read and re-read the note that had been set on her dinner tray the previous night. In flowing script, the writer courteously asked her to have breakfast in the main hall. Although the wording implied that there was a choice, Molly knew there was none. She would have to go regardless of her feelings.

If there was a silver lining in her current situation, it was that Sabren was a man of his word.

Molly had been taken care of exceedingly well. She was given a gorgeous suite that had a breathtaking view of the gardens and was attended by servants who did everything from changing the bed linens to drawing her bath. Whilst she was not given free reign of the house, she did have access to the library and the manor grounds. But she was never left alone, always having either a guard or a maid in attendance.

Yes, Sabren had indeed promised her he would look after her. He also promised that he would kill her and the babies too if Sherlock didn't cooperate.

The thought always remained with Molly and chilled her with icy clarity as she roamed the halls of her beautiful prison.

When she awoke in the morning, she quickly washed up and looked into the wardrobe for something suitable to wear. At her first night at the manor, she had found a closetful of maternity dresses waiting for her in her new bedroom. The sight of them nearly induced a panic attack; Sabren and his men had been anticipating her arrival for quite some time.

Deciding on a demure rose-coloured piece and an Aran wool cardigan, she plaited her hair into a single braid then was escorted to the main hall by a suited guard.

"Good morning." Sabren smiled upon Molly's entrance. "Do sit down."

Quietly, Molly took the seat that was the farthest from her host. A server came and set down a hot plate of a full English breakfast before her. Antique silverware gleamed to her right and left as another server poured orange juice into a crystal goblet.

"I am happy to have you join us." Sabren said. "I believe you haven't met my son, Edward."

Molly looked up to find a dark-haired man who seemed to be a younger-version of Sabren sitting to her far left. He was still working on a scone and oddly intent to avoid her gaze.

"How are you, my dear? Are you feeling well?" Sabren politely inquired.

Molly could feel bile rising in her throat but quelled it down. "Yes."

"'Yes, Your Grace.'" Sabren corrected. "You are speaking to a duke, after all. The address is a natural courtesy."

Under the table, Molly balled one hand into a fist. "I apologise, Your Grace. I didn't know."

"That's better. Please, do eat."

Obediently, Molly picked up her fork and started to dissect then eliminate her breakfast one piece at a time.

"I am planning to contact Sherlock tomorrow. I would like your attendance. It will be early in the morning, I'm afraid."

Molly could only nod.

"I must say, this is bringing back quite a few memories for me." Sabren brought a warm cup of tea to his lips then set it down. "It's pleasant to be reacquainted with the Holmes family again albeit indirectly. I regret that you did not have the opportunity to meet Siger and Violet, your children's grandparents."

Edward stirred in his seat, looking uncomfortable.

"I lost touch with Siger after his marriage but I heard from mutual friends that his last years were very difficult." Sabren spread a spoonful of raspberry jam on his toast. "When Sherlock was at Cambridge, he became dependent on narcotics. I can only imagine how overwhelming that must have been for Siger because his wife had died the year before. Renal failure, apparently."

Molly grew pale. She had known about Sherlock's jarring history with drug addiction from scant remarks she had heard from Greg and an intense conversation with Sherlock himself. She imagined the effects it had had on his family but this was the first time she was hearing it from a third-person party who was familiar with the subject.

"I am not sure what drove Sherlock to the drugs. My men have failed to ascertain that fact. My guess is that his mother's death affected him. Of course, there is also the possibility that it was an experiment gone wrong."

Molly set down her fork, unable to eat.

"Did I ever mention that my son was at Cambridge with Sherlock? Ned was several years his senior there but their paths never crossed."

"Father." Edward finally spoke up. He glanced at Molly—was that pity, she saw?—then returned his attention to Sabren. "I think Dr. Hooper is tired. Perhaps she should return to her room and rest."

"You are being rude to our guest. She's just finished her breakfast and hasn't even had tea yet." Sabren answered, graciously deflecting the retreat his son had offered him. "Have them bring out a service, would you?"

Edward opened his mouth to say something then thinking the better of it, he stood up and excused himself from the table. All that lay between Molly and her captor were a solid six feet of polished oak covered in Chantilly lace.

"Forgive my son. He has yet to master social niceties." Sabren apologised as he wiped his hands on a napkin. "I suppose you are wondering why I am going over Sherlock's personal history with you?"

Molly hesitated. "You're trying to find and exploit his weaknesses."

Sabren's eyes brightened in interest. "You are perceptive, Dr. Hooper. Sherlock does not give you the credit that you deserve."

"That's why you chose me. You think I'm his weakness."

"Precisely." Sabren took a sip of water from his glass. "It's akin to chess. Once you capture the queen, you disable your opponent quite considerably."

"You can still win." Molly countered.

"Yes." The girl's defiance drew a jaded smile from the duke. "But it makes a victory less likely, my dear."


	7. Chapter 7

On the sixteenth floor of an office building, John sat waiting in a sumptuous office.

He took in his surroundings with indifference, not caring for the cut-glass chandeliers or leather-upholstered chairs. The brass title stand engraved _Managing Director _induced expectations of a dour matron with a severe personality not unlike Mycroft.

As though to remind him that he was interacting with an upper echelon of banking, the assistant offered John an assortment of mineral waters and special tea blends instead of plain tap with instant ground coffee. Even the cup he was given was made from Limoges porcelain and embossed with the investment banking firm's logo.

Not that John minded. It was nice to be given a few comforts now and then. He savoured a creamy Roobios tea as he went over a premeditated script on what to say to this unknown cousin. Earlier in the day, he had a word with Mrs. Hudson and had struggled to tell her in the gentlest terms that Sherlock had miraculously returned from the dead. The result was that he got boxed on the ears before the soft-hearted landlady burst into hysterical but grateful tears over the news.

As far as Mary was concerned, Sherlock was still dead and it was imperative that she believed it to be so. John had not remembered any particular female relative who was present at the funeral. He wondered why she had not attended but that was a question that he was not interested in answering today. He was here for one purpose only and he intended to not waste any time in fulfilling it.

"Dr. John Watson, I presume?" A voice broke the silence of the room.

"Yes, hi." John set his mug down and turned around.

A lithe woman in a business suit with skin like darkened amber and liquid black eyes walked in. Setting down a collection of pitchbooks at the edge of her desk, she gracefully extended a hand.

"I'm sorry, are you...?" John was stunned as he took it. "Are you Mary Morstan?"

"Ah." Mary knowingly nodded. "You were expecting someone different."

"No, no, it's not that!" John back-pedaled, trying to avoid the impending faux-pas. "It's just, you being Sherlock's cousin and all, I thought there'd be a family resemblance." He winced as soon as he said it then tried to apologise when Mary disarmed him with a courteous smile.

"It's all right, Dr. Watson. I know you meant no ill." Mary sat down at her desk. "My mother was Rosalind Holmes. She and my father, Captain Arthur Morstan, adopted me from Bangladesh when I was an infant."

"I see." John was fascinated by her explanation. "Forgive me, Sherlock didn't mention anything, I didn't realise you were from a military family. I served myself."

"Afghanistan, I take it."

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." John could hardly suppress a smile as he was jolted into a memory of meeting Sherlock for the first time. _ Afghanistan or Iraq? _ "If you don't mind me asking, are you his only cousin?"

"I'm afraid so." Mary replied. "The Holmes family is not a fertile one. Each generation is lucky to get a child. My mother had four brothers but only one had children aside from herself. The rest died as bachelors."

"I think that pattern will change." John said, thinking at once of Molly and the expectant twin boys.

"Your optimism is kind." Mary grinned as she loosened her black hair from its clip and let it relax down her shoulders. "Believe me, the family had high hopes when Myc married Edie but it's been six years now and the stork hasn't visited at all. I think he might've had MI6 stationed around the house to shoot it down."

John laughed. "I'm sorry, _Myc_?"

"That's what my Aunt Violet used to call them. Myc and Locky." Mary beamed with nostalgia. "Didn't my cousins tell you?"

"No, not that bit." John replied. He couldn't wait to return to Baker Street and wave this new piece of information in front of Sherlock's face. He had little occasion to be acquainted with the personal history of the Holmes brothers and the fact that Mary was freely giving out memories from their formative years like candy made the day seem like Christmas had come in July.

"Oh I supposed as much." Mary leaned back into her chair with a sigh. "They were different back then. They were so much happier when their mother was alive. Now that Locky's gone, I like to think he got to see her again."

"It seems you've…" John paused to find the right word. "…cared deeply for Sherlock."

"Of course." She said it as though it was not even a question of having affection for her cousin. "But we had a falling out whilst he was at uni. He cut everyone off including me. The drugs made him so…crazy…I can't even describe to you what it was like. Myc didn't invite me or any of our family to the funeral so I knew our presences weren't even wanted in the very end."

There was an uncomfortable pause where Mary lapsed into remembering the dead and John felt an awkward but pressing need to allude further on the subject.

"Actually, the reason I'm here, it has to do with your Aunt Violet." John cleared his throat as he prepared for the lie. "Mycroft sent me to ask you—and I understand completely that it is very sudden and rude—"

"He wants his mother's pearls back." Mary finished for him.

John blinked, not knowing how to reply.

"I hope you're not assuming from this exchange that I have been blessed with the powers of observation like my cousins." Mary reached down to her desk drawer and as if by magic, she brought out a velvet box in what could only contain the pearls. Without hesitation, she slid it towards John.

"My uncle gave this to my aunt as an anniversary gift. It was her favourite." Mary said, her eyes misted over with memory and fondness. "When Myc gave this to me, I couldn't believe it. I've never been able to wear them, you know, and I figured that at some point he or Locky would want them back. It was always a question of when."

"You've kept this in your office the entire time?" John asked.

Mary shrugged. "It's the safest place I know. We have twenty-four hour armed guards and a very comprehensive security system here. A lot more reassuring than keeping the necklace at my own flat, wouldn't you agree?"

John gazed at her in admiration for her foresight. He could not _believe_ that this lovely, exotic creature was _Sherlock's_ relative. It was a maddening, almost obscene, connection yet he was grateful for the experience. The Holmes family was not mad after all. There still remained a strain of normalcy in the gene pool.

"Is this all you came for, Dr. Watson? I hate to interrupt our meeting but I have to make a few calls." Mary apologised.

"Yes, of course." John immediately got up and shook her hand again. "Thank you Ms. Morstan."

"Mary, Dr. Watson, you make me sound ancient." Mary insisted with charming pleasantry as though she were speaking with a close friend and not a stranger that she met less than half an hour ago. "And please remind Mycroft to be careful with the pearls. They're Tiffany's."

"I will, and thank you." He smiled at her correction. "Mary."

.

.oOo.

.

The jeweller from Christie's Auction House sat on a stool in 221B's drab kitchen and squinted in the light. He held Violet Holmes' engagement ring ever so carefully in his white-gloved hands as he subjected it to meticulous examination with a special magnifying glass. Sherlock stood by with crossed arms, waiting for the pronouncement, but not as keenly as a potential seller would. He had looked at the stone through his microscope but decided to call in a gemmologist, knowing that such a connoisseur of luxury items had better tools than he did for inspections that required extreme precision.

Christie's was normally closed in the evenings and it had taken a good deal of persuasion on Sherlock's part to convince one of the department heads to examine the rings. The promise of fortune was something an auctioneer couldn't resist.

The moment the gemmologist arrived, Toby took one look at the newcomer and slinked off to John's room, presumably for a nap as the cat clearly did not feel that this encounter was worth his attention. Sherlock was compelled to concur with Toby's assessment as the appointment was taking far longer than his liking.

"Edwardian Era." The jeweller nodded confidently. "The filigree work on the band here dates it." He let the tip of his finger glide along the delicate _fleur-de-lys_ and orange blossom motifs.

Sherlock barely nodded in acknowledgement.

"The carat weight is about three-and-a-half. Colour's off, probably a K with VS2 clarity. But that's because the rock was cut the old-fashioned way."

"There's nothing unique about the diamond, no marks or anything?" Sherlock could not have made his dissatisfaction more plain.

"Mr. Holmes." The jeweller was offended by his brusqueness. "This ring, despite its imperfections in the cut, is extremely valuable. We're talking nearly twenty thousand pounds here and that isn't even including the wedding band."

"They're just family heirlooms."

"Family heirloom or not," the jeweller carefully put the ring back into its box and gathered up his things, "these would fetch a handsome price. I'd even hazard a guess that the estimate would double at auction if you are willing to part with them."

Sherlock fixed a cold glare at him.

The jeweller however shrugged and preparing to leave, he left a business card on the table. "If you change your mind, you can reach me."

No sooner had the appraiser gone out, John appeared.

"Who was that?" He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the skulking figure descending down the stairs.

"A vulture from the auction house." Sherlock answered. "I needed him to assess the rings."

"Oh, how'd it go?"

"A waste of time." Sherlock was growing tired and frustrated. Seventy-two precious hours had already passed with no progress in sight and he was ever so keenly aware of the clock. Somewhere in an unknown house, Molly was being kept for slaughter. "The rings are perfectly fine. There's nothing wrong with them at all."

"So it's not what Sabren is looking for."

"No." Sherlock gazed at the box. "Twenty-thousand quid is nothing to someone as wealthy as he is."

"I'm sorry, _twenty-thousand_?" John's eyes widened. "For that little thing? Is your family rich?"

"It's a timepiece." Sherlock waved away John's speculation as though it were an irksome fly. "My father's from landed gentry, nothing more. The rings belonged to my great-grandmother and it's been passed down ever since."

"I'm surprised you managed to keep in the family at all."

"Divorce wasn't common back then like today."

"Well then," John nodded in understanding, "I'm sorry you've had a rough start but this should cheer you up." He drew out the box and set it down on the dining table. "Your cousin Mary sends her regards. She asked me to tell you to be careful with the pearls."

"Excellent. I was afraid it would take days for her to send it back." Immediately, Sherlock flipped the top open and yanked the strand out of its plush casings.

"And…you're not listening to a word I said." John concluded drably.

Sherlock brought the necklace to his lips and grated the milky white beads against his teeth.

John blinked and started to ask but thinking the better of it, he decided to go into his room to retrieve his laptop. When he returned, he found Sherlock scrutinising the pearls by raising the strand to the kitchen light.

"Looking for something?"

"Are you sure this is the necklace?" Sherlock's eyes were fixated on the bauble.

"Yes, why?"

"These aren't pearls."

"What're you going on about?"

Without warning, Sherlock tossed the strand into a filled beaker. Almost instantaneously, the liquid began to bubble and crackle. The pearls were fizzling.

"For God's sake—_!_" John nearly dropped his laptop. "Is that…is that a_cid_?"

Sherlock crouched down so his sight was in level with the beaker on the dining table. He waited for a minute before extracting the necklace with tongs and laid out the decaying artefact before the strand broke away entirely. Trading the cooking instrument for tweezers, he carefully overturned each bead. The nacre was all but destroyed and there was not a trace of any luminosity in what had been costly pearls. A fact which John could not help but remark on.

"You just threw away half a fortune into the toilet, you know that?"

"These aren't pearls." Sherlock repeated, grabbing a UV light. To demonstrate his point, he shined it right onto the beads so John could see distinct markings on that looked as though they had been scratched into them.

"What am I looking at?" John, as ever, was stumped. He peered at the necklace and could make out dark grey Cs, Os, Hs here and there but nothing more. There were at least seventeen beads marked in this fashion and while he understood that this was significant, he wasn't sure how it coalesced into a reasonable answer.

"I don't know." Sherlock snatched a spare pen and started writing down every symbol he could find. "Or rather, I don't know what it's for but this some kind of biochemical formula."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"John, I know you can be vacuous, but now is not the time." Sherlock said as he counted out the beads. "These symbols represent either the carbon number, position of the molecule, or the name of a gene, antigen… I just have to play around with the combinations to see which one gives me a sensible end product."

"So this is…"

"The item." Sherlock looked up at John in triumph. "It has to be."

"Better start looking up what this is then to be sure. You can't give Sabren the wrong thing." At that, John galvanised into action. Retrieving his computer, he drew a chair and opened his browser. Using the list, the pair came to a terrible calculation in that the permutations ranged in the thousands. It would take more than a week before they could deduce which one was correct.

Much to John's dismay, the internet could not offer many solutions either. As the hours stretched past midnight and the mugs of tea grew from two to six, they were nowhere in getting answers. The slow pace was driving Sherlock to extreme anxiousness though he made no mention of the sort. John however could easily tell from the incessant pacing to the grinding of teeth and frequent glances at the clock. He was about to suggest Sherlock take a power nap to relax when a textbox emerged on screen.

/SERVER REQUEST/: VIDEO CONFERENCE/: ACCEPT OR DECLINE?

"…Sherlock."

"What? Did you find something?" The detective's head shot up from a chemistry book. Wordlessly, John turned his laptop around so the monitor was in Sherlock's view.

Sherlock could only stare. When he made no move, John tentatively moved the cursor and after getting a tiny nod of assent, he clicked _ACCEPT_.

.

.oOo.

.

Molly could feel her heart pounding in anticipation.

When she saw the camera light go green, she knew who was behind the lens and wished to God that he was here with her even though she knew it was impossible. Today however she felt a different sort of dread. The moment she was escorted into the library, Sabren's men had her tied and strapped to a chair. The experience of being bound was terrifying and she couldn't understand why it was being done—there had been no need before because she hadn't struggled. So why now?

"I am sorry for the inconvenience. I promise the call will not take very long." Sabren had reassured her before the camera went on.

Nervously, Molly glanced about the library and saw that Edward was present. After her introduction at breakfast, she realised that she had seen him before and he had been with her at every video conference. But just like the other times he would neither look nor speak to her. Instead he stood by the bay window with his arms crossed and affixed his gaze out into the green world of the garden as though he could will himself to any other location but the one he was in now.

"Mr. Holmes, I am glad to have caught you at this hour. I hoped you would be awake at this time." Sabren spoke to the lens. "I unfortunately had to inconvenience Dr. Hooper as you can see."

He gestured to Molly.

"I have been told that you have returned to England and busy on the task I've given you. So busy in fact that you have been delving into every resource you have at your disposal. Including your brother."

A sudden, noticeable chill emanated from Sabren. Wordlessly he signalled to one of his guards and one stepped forward.

"No…_no!_" Molly gasped, seeing the taser pointed for her.

Edward turned. When he realised what was happening, he leapt into action and with eyes widened in shock, he started running across the room only to be held back by a crush of aides. "Don't!"

A jolt of electricity ripped through Molly's body and splintered it into two with agony. She shrieked at the impact and although the current ran for several seconds, it lasted long. Far too long. Her arms and legs jerked uncontrollably against the bindings then fell limp when it was over. A sheen of sweat and tears lay on her face as her head rolled back in exhaustion.

"I regret that it had to come to this." Sabren said coldly. "But I am a man of my word, Mr. Holmes. I gave you specific instructions and you disregarded them. Do it again, I will kill her."

Molly groaned as she felt a kind of uncomfortable pressure building up in her abdomen. Heaving, she struggled weakly to get out of the chair but the effort was too much. Her arms lay to her side in defeat.

"You have four more days. I expect you to use them wisely. When you find what I am looking for, you are to deliver it at the base of the Eye in the city. The exact time will be pending."

And having concluded his message, Sabren had the cameras shut down.

"_What are you doing?_" Edward shouted as he pushed away the duke's guards. "You said you wouldn't harm her! You swore it!"

Sabren merely glared. "Do not ever interrupt me whilst I am speaking."

"She's pregnant!"

"That does not give her a carte blanche. I will have what I need one way or the other even at the expense of her life as well as her children's. You must learn that without sacrifice, there is no victory." Sabren turned away from his horror-stricken son to Molly, who had lapsed into unconsciousness. "Send her back to her room. Have one of the medics look in on her."

Silently a pair of aides approached. As one loosened the rope, the other held Molly's body close to him then finally free, the men carried her away and disappeared into the main hall.

"If you care so little about Dr. Hooper," Edward finally managed to speak after they had gone, "why are you even bothering to keep her alive?"

"Don't be disillusioned, Ned." Sabren quietly admonished. "This isn't mercy. This is a practicality. If Sherlock does not do as I ask, I need him to see me break her and how can I do that if she dies prematurely?"

.

.oOo.

.

They could not move.

They sat exactly where they were, eyes glued to the dark screen, where moments before they had seen something too horrible to describe.

"My god…" John whispered. "Sabren…he _knew…_he knew where you were the whole time…and Molly…I don't even…" He turned to see how Sherlock was taking the news but it was too late.

Immediately getting up from the stool, Sherlock barely turned around and after a tense pause, his hand shot out for the beaker.

"Sherlock, no!" John flinched as the glass shattered against the wall. Thin, steady streams of smoke curled upwards from the damaged wallpaper as the acid ate away at the plaster and worked its way deep into the insulation.

When John looked up, he found Sherlock staring off into the distance and breathing hard as though he had just returned from running a marathon. His teeth were bared open and a dangerous, mad-like glint was in his eyes. For a long time, he did not speak and when he did at last, his voice was unnaturally calm.

"I don't know what the formula is for but if I can crack it, I'll have a better understanding of why my father left this for me. He did this on purpose and I want to know why, especially how he got a hold of this and Sabren found out about it."

"Okay, hold on, just wait." John held up his hands. "Don't go off on your own again. You need help."

"I don't have much time."

"But we are going to need to coordinate and take precautions."

"There's something wrong about this, this code is something else that doesn't just affect me. I have to get the answers."

"Sherlock, you're not listening!" John slammed his fist down onto the table. "What about Molly? What are you going to do about her?"

Blue met hazel and as far as John could see, there was nothing there but a cold deep-seated hatred.

.

.

.

.oOo.

.

.

.

_"I will find her_."

.

.

.

.oOo.

.

.

.

_28 June 04:58_

_[Voicemail Message]_

_Recipient: Lestrade, Gregson D.I._

_Sender: [Blocked Number]_

_Hyde Park. 9:00. Emergency._


	8. Chapter 8

The MRC National Institute of Medical Research was housed in a pre-war brownstone and guarded zealously by a host of scientists who were intent on retaining their autonomy. These boffins answered to only high-ranked bureaucrats so the choice of disguise was obvious to Sherlock.

He came in the afternoon, dressed as a government official and lied under the pretense of reviewing ongoing projects to renew grant funding. His inherent aloofness along with a personality that dangerously bordered on narcissism meshed well with the scientists so that they did not suspect they were being played for fools.

With the decayed pearls hidden in his pocket and the markings kept on a written piece of paper, he made a beeline for the chemistry department. Ensnaring a young PhD candidate named Ray Polloni into giving him a favour with the promise of approving a government grant, the graduate student was more than happy to decipher the code.

"I can't." Ray announced after a brief scan. "It's got a whole bunch of stuff way beyond what I can do, viral genetic material and additives, you'll have to take it virology. This isn't my scope of study, Mr. Conolly."

"And why would I need to do that?" Sherlock frowned.

"Because this isn't just some compound." Ray pointed out. "It's a vaccine."

"For what?"

"I have no idea. I'm sorry." The graduate student was candid about his limitations.

"What a shame. No grants for you then." Sherlock turned on his heel and disappeared into the maze-like halls of MRC to find the virology department. When he got there, he quickly delved into his acting persona and giving the identical promise, this time to senior scientist Kaiwen Lee, the old woman was just as enthusiastic in providing every assistance.

Scrutinising Sherlock's note behind her tortoise-shell rimmed glasses, Dr. Lee took a pen and started correcting. "It's odd...this combination."

"I'd appreciate it if you could elaborate further. I've been told it's a vaccine."

"It is." Dr. Lee confirmed. "But it's for a virus I haven't quite seen before. The markings here...these three on the paper, they're abbreviations. From what I can tell, it's listing not only proteins, the serum media, but the viral compounds."

"And they are?"

"Well that's the thing." Dr. Lee's face darkened. "From what I can make out, it's suggesting the use of a HIV vector to deliver some kind of inactivated virus...if I'm reading this right, the note is saying it's a hybrid between smallpox and the bubonic plague."

She paused, noticeably disturbed by this newfound information. "Mr. Conolly...what is this for? Where did you find this?"

"Can you reverse-engineer the virus from that vaccine formula?" Sherlock inquired instead.

"For this?" Dr. Lee was deeply shocked. "We've got a category IV lab but this indicates a virulent strain that has the potential to be pandemic. Even if I could manufacture the virus, I would still need the original creation itself to produce cell cultures for further study and eventual vaccine production."

"In your department's history, has there been anyone on staff that experimented with infectious diseases of this nature?"

"We _all _work with infectious diseases." Dr. Lee snapped. "And to answer your question, I can't disclose that."

"This is a matter of national importance." Sherlock said sternly in his best impression of Mycroft.

"We don't manufacture that sort here and I'm not at liberty to say what our staff researches." Dr. Lee countered. "If this vaccine concept is even remotely real, the pathogen characteristics are just as deadly as a biochemical weapon."

She stared after Sherlock as though he were someone far more sinister than a mere government official.

"You'll have to bring in an directive if you want clearance." Dr. Lee rose from her desk chair. "Until then, I'd like to ask you to leave the premises. I want no involvement in this."

"Right." Sherlock stood up and turned to go. He saw himself out and slipping a hand into his pocket, he felt the worn away pearls click and glide along his fingertips as he made his way out of the research institute. He was not shaken by the knowledge he had acquired but felt a sense of gratification. The scientist's reaction only confirmed what he had suspected all along. He wasn't just holding Sabren's treasure.

He held a key to life and death itself.

.

.oOo.

.

"Take it once a day with food." John instructed to his patient.

The teenager nodded sullenly as John scribbled the prescription on his pad. His dark, urban clothes contrasted unflatteringly against the white backdrop of the exam room. Only someone observant would have seen that the boy had the hard look of the street about him and was thin for someone of his height which suggested that he had the double misfortune of having a high metabolism meals along with difficulty procuring meals.

The sun was setting as the clock comfortably ticked away John's last hour at the clinic. He ripped off the paper and held it out.

"Thanks doc." The boy took the order and just as he did, he deftly slipped in a folded note in between John's index and middle finger.

John paused. "Yes, can you wait a moment? I just realised I forgot to give you directions to the pharmacy. Let me get it from my office."

The boy nodded, allowing John to briefly step out.

Shortly after Sabren's last conference call, he and Sherlock had devised a new communications system using the homeless to act as couriers who were ever present all throughout London and could infiltrate a variety of locations without detection. Messages were given through seemingly random but natural acts. A brief moment of contact in a coffee shop. The fall to a sidewalk that elicited a helping hand. A stranger calling to the intended target, claiming they dropped something. In this case, John was giving free healthcare to one of the misfits that Sherlock had employed.

After realising that they could not accomplish anything without the combined assistance of Scotland Yard and SIS, Lestrade and Mycroft were placed in the contact list. It took the former several hours to accept a series of what preposterous, if not astounding, news that Sherlock was not only alive but that Molly was in the hands of a terrorist organisation. By the time Lestrade roused himself from the chaos that Sherlock and John had thrown him to, he quickly adapted to become an able partner. Secrecy was paramount to Molly's safety and once this was understood, all four men worked assiduously to not compromise the integrity of their mission.

With that in mind, John carefully unfolded his message.

_Need background check MRC for scientists specialising in experimental virology. _

John reached down for his wallet in the left pocket of his whitecoat and counting out forty pounds, he refolded the note then wrote the address of Scotland Yard on the outside.

"Sorry about that." He returned to his office with a printout of a map. "The pharmacy is just a block away. Make sure you get the medication and thanks for coming in, David."

John held out his hand for a handshake.

"Sure, Dr. Watson." David clasped it, feeling the money and note slide between their palms.

"See you at followup."

.

.oOo.

.

_Scotland Yard_

"Hey Greg." Sally Donovan briskly knocked on the partly-open office door. She held up a hot, greasy bag of sandwich, haddock, and chips in Lestrade's view. "Ordered lunch? This was at the front. Delivery boy's waiting."

"Yeah, that's mine." Lestrade got up from his seat and snatched his food away from Sally's grasp.

"Easy, I wasn't going to eat it." Sally wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"I'm hungry." Lestrade apologised. "Send the deliveryman in, would you?"

"You got it."

Lestrade waited until she was out of sight when he opened the bag and started to remove the food items, placing them on his desk one by one until he found what he was looking for. Carefully, he peeled open the note then quickly reading its contents, he tore them into pieces then threw one half in his bin and the other into the shredder container.

"Sir?"

Lestrade turned to find the delivery boy waiting and handed over the cash along with tip, which upon closer inspection, was four times more than it should have been. But the delivery boy did not seem to mind and instead he calmly accepted the amount then left without another word.

Alone in his office again, Lestrade went straight to his computer and after logging into the Scotland Yard mainframe, he began typing.

_BACKGROUND INFORMATION - SELECT_

_INSTITUTION - MRC _

_SELECT- ALL PERSONNEL _

.

.oOo.

.

"All right, so here's what I've got from Lestrade. He sent word whilst you were gone." John got to the point as Sherlock stepped into the flat.

"Good, he ran the specs on everyone?" The detective threw off his coat onto the armchair.

"On virology. MRC has had thousands of scientists under their employment for a long time, it would take Lestrade months. But yeah, he found a few things." John handed a folder to Sherlock. "A guy from your homeless network gave me this."

Wordlessly, Sherlock opened the folder and started going over each file with lightening speed.

"No...no...not this one...no..." He dismissed each candidate and was nearing the end when he stopped at a black-and-white photograph of a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and square jaw.

_Mark L. Small, MD-PhD._

_Northwestern University B.S. 1972_

_UCLA School of Medicine M.D. PhD. 1978_

_Consultant to DuPont Chemicals Inc. 1979-1981_

_Assistant Professor of Pathology at MRC Institute 1980-1988_

"I know this man." Sherlock murmured. "I've seen him before but he wasn't Mark Small...he called himself George."

"You actually know that guy?"

"He came around the house once." Sherlock let his memory drift back to a cool autumn when he was about eight and Mycroft was fifteen. Their father had brought a client for dinner, which was unusual as Sherlock remembered Siger preferring to conduct his business at the law firm's office instead of home.

What made the event even more memorable was that this client was foreign, an American who introduced himself as George. He struck Sherlock as being a depressed individual whose brilliance and inherent kindness were not readily apparent. It was not until the dinner that George discovered the boys were highly precocious. He became much more jovial and avidly discussed chemistry with them, delighting to find Sherlock and Mycroft equally enthusiastic about the subject. Afterwards, Mycroft had brought out his molecule building set and in the quiet of Siger's study, the trio spent hours making structures until Violet sent the boys to bed.

The last Sherlock had seen of "George" was the man engaged in a whispered conversation with his father and looking incredibly distressed. He remembered asking his father the next day why the man had been so upset but Siger had dismissed his inquiry and gave the courteous lie that "George" was perfectly all right.

After Sherlock relayed all this to John, the doctor sat in pensive quiet and after mulling the whole thing over, he ventured to ask. "This George fellow..."

"Dr. Small." Sherlock corrected.

"Your dad introduced Dr. Small as somebody else which means either your father didn't know who he really was or he _did_ know and he was trying to shield Dr. Small's identity. The question is why."

"It's the latter case." Sherlock was convinced of it. "My father was obviously protecting him but you raise the right question. _Why_?"

John reviewed the file again. "If only we could talk to him...it says here that Dr. Small died in 1988 from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. His death was ruled as a suicide."

"And a year priour to that, he was sacked from MRC for violating the institute's research policies by conducting unethical experimentations." Sherlock said. "When I questioned Dr. Lee about her staff today, she got defensive and wouldn't say anything. He's one of four virologists that were dismissed with a relevant reason and had previous contact with my father...he fits the profile. Which means he was the one who gave the vaccine."

Sherlock relapsed into restless pacing whilst John continue to read through Dr. Small's papers until he came across the printouts of crime scene photographs. Almost at once, his face turned grey.

"Did you...look...at this?" John asked at length.

Sherlock stopped mid-way and glanced down, knowing at once what John was referring to.

"Dr. Small was being threatened and for whatever reason he didn't comply so Sabren sent him a message. Then Dr. Small killed himself afterwards either from grief or he was coerced to do so."

"This man's entire family was murdered. His wife and all three of his daughters. The youngest was four months old. And those girls..." John pressed a fist against his lips, unable to describe the heinous details of the horror that had befallen them.

"Don't get so worked up, John. It'll get you nowhere."

John stared after him, appalled.

"Their deaths were on Dr. Small's hands. He got involved with Sabren somehow and paid the price for it." Sherlock explained without betraying any sign that he was perturbed. He paused thoughtfully, weighing all the facts in order to find a balanced solution. "Where there is a cure, there is the disease. Sabren must have employed Small to make the virus and its corresponding vaccine. Then something happened, perhaps he was affected by a guilty conscience. Small goes to my father and Sabren responds by having his family eliminated."

John got up from his seat and angrily thrust the post-mortem photographs in front of Sherlock's face. "This is what that bastard Sabren does to innocent people. Look—Sherlock—_look at what he did to them!_ He'll do the same to Molly and your children if you don't hand that vaccine over!"

"I don't need to be reminded every five minutes how much danger Molly is in."

"Well it's when you act like this that I think you do."

"Act like _what_?"

"You're more concerned about getting the answer right than saving Molly." John accused. "You haven't even once talked about her or the babies."

"Until several days ago, I wasn't even aware that there were any 'babies.'" Sherlock retorted. "This is something that's become broader than just her, it affects everyone. You're always preaching about working for the greater good and when I attempt it, you then tell me not to."

"No." John shook his head. "This is not about the greater good for you. This is about you proving yourself that you're right. If you care about Molly at all, you'll surrender the vaccine to Sabren now. No more of this secrecy rubbish and involving Lestrade or Mycroft. It's a bloody miracle Sabren hasn't figured out what we've been doing."

"Are you suggesting that I give this up?"

"I want you to concentrate on the rescue."

Sherlock's eyes gave a penetrating, questioning look. "...you're unnerved by Sabren."

"What happened to Dr. Small's family, I've seen atrocities like that in war." John did not even try to deny it. "He won't just kill Molly, Sherlock. He will have her tortured and assaulted in the worst way possible if he doesn't get what he wants. He has men who are despicable enough to make that happen."

"You don't think I know that?" Sherlock's icy countenance broke to reveal a fleeting glimpse of muted horror over Molly's impending fate. The ghastly images of Dr. Small's mutilated wife and daughters were seared into his memory.

"What I want to ask is whether or not you're willing to let your family to die to save however many people it is from this virus."

"If I don't figure this out, there will be other families that be massacred. Not just mine."

"Right." John nodded seemingly in agreement but his eyes showed unmistakable signs of deep frustration and a kind of sadness that Sherlock could not explain. "Okay, fine, if that's how you see it."

Sherlock bent down to look at the photograph of the unfortunate Dr. Small. His mind was tingling in anticipation as it usually did when he knew the answer was so very close.

"If Sabren had known my father had it, he would've gone after him but that never happened. My father died without incident which means that Sabren never knew my father had the vaccine until now."

_Why did Sabren want a virus and a vaccine in the first place? Why did Dr. Small go to you, Father? How did Sabren figure out you had it all this time? _

_Why does Sabren want me to meet him at the London Eye? Where is he keeping Molly? _

Mycroft and Lestrade could not answer these questions despite the wealth of surveillance information they had at their fingertips. They could tell Sherlock about Sabren's activities but not his intentions. No, that was a matter that could only be brought to light by Sabren himself or someone who had worked for him. Moriarty was dead and it wasn't easy to root out a Sabren associate.

Unless of course...

John rolled his eyes and sighed. "What is it now? You're doing that thing again."

"There's someone I need to talk to."

"And who might that be?"

.

.oOo.

.

_The Savoy Hotel_

The room service attendant rolled his cart along the lofty, carpeted halls of the Savoy. A series of sconces illuminated the pathway with softened light that set off the creamy white walls beautifully. When he reached room 1506, he gave an obligatory knock before using the key card and entering. Holding the door, he brought in a dinner plate covered by a silver dome then announced himself to the sumptuous but empty parlour.

"Mrs. Norton? Room service."

"I don't seem to remember ordering anything." A sultry voice called out.

The attendant turned to find a lovely woman in a form-fitting peplum dress, languidly leaning against the threshold of the bedroom suite. Her blonde hair flowed about her shoulders in perfect waves and a pair of crimson lips completed this vision with its accenting detail.

"I'm sure you brought something delectable for dinner." She sauntered over and took the plate away from him to set it down on the table. Her hands slid on the front of his uniform then stopped just below his neck. "But I prefer having desserts first."

"Ms. Adler." Sherlock greeted.

"You could have picked a better costume. The uniform doesn't suit you." Irene cattily eyed him. "After everything, you still won't be on a first-name basis with me?"

"Your disguise isn't much better." Sherlock replied. "You don't fit the married-woman persona very well, _Mrs. Norton_."

"Oh but it comes with its own benefits." Irene withdrew and slinked into a finely damasked chair. "Gentlemen prefer blondes as Marilyn Monroe used to say."

"Thank you for coming to England on such short notice."

"How could I not?" She smiled. "I do owe you a debt and when you called, I naturally assumed you wanted to collect."

"What do you know about Roland Sabren?"

At the mention of the name, all gaiety faded from Irene's face. Seeing the noticeable effect it was having on her, Sherlock decided to give her a few minutes to speak. When she finally did, she brought her fingers together and raised her eyes to Sherlock. "The duke has found you out, has he?"

"I know he was Moriarty's superior and by extension, yours. I'm aware of what he's been doing over the years but the reason for it is unclear. I was hoping that you could provide clarification."

Irene however remained silent.

"I don't have time. I need this information now."

"Why do you want it?" She asked.

"That's no concern of yours. I only require the facts."

Irene's brows rose. "If you know about Roland, then he most certainly knows about you. Have you been threatened?"

"In a manner of speaking."

The dominatrix leaned back into her chair and sighed. "I suppose I could tell you. You did save me in Karachi."

"Then consider this a gratitude that is due."

"You are so demanding." Irene replied silkily. "If you are must know, I've never met the Duke in person, only those in his circle. I never let Jim Moriarty see that I knew about his master's dealings and feigned ignorance whenever it suited me."

"Did your camera phone contain anything pertaining to him?" Sherlock inquired.

"That," Irene's expression darkened, "would have cost me more than my head. I never could get my hands on hard proof. Only whispers and pillow talk."

"And what did these whispers say?"

"That due to the economic recession in the 1970s, his Grace the Duke of Kendal was hit with substantial financial losses. So much that he was on the verge of losing everything including his house seat. They say that was when he started his 'enterprise.' He combined his remaining wealth with that of three other individuals with the purpose of aggrandising and profiteering. Together, they are known as the 'Four.'"

"Not the most imaginative of names for a criminal organisation." Sherlock commented. "Who are the other three?"

"I don't know. I never found out their names but my understanding is that they're foreign and wield a considerable amount of leverage." Irene confessed. "Aside from their subsidiaries that operated with what you would call 'criminal activities,' I heard they had a scheme. It had to do with harnessing a biochemical weapon then shorting against a cure that they already manufactured. The Agra Virus. In order to eliminate the potential competition, they targeted high-profile researchers to prevent rivals from introducing a curative vaccine before they did. You must admit, they had brilliant foresight."

"It would seem the Four are not risk-averse when it comes to their investments." Sherlock noted.

"But the Agra Virus was never released and the plan wasn't executed. It went missing thirty years ago. The scientist they hired to create it disappeared. He was supposed to have gotten money out of the deal but he was cheated out of his share and silenced under threat."

_Dr. Mark Small..._Sherlock thought.

"The fool tried to protect himself by deceiving the Four into thinking they had a viable vaccine when in fact it was just a placebo. When they found out, they went after his family. Very Roman, wouldn't you say?" Irene curled a lock of her dyed hair around her finger, seemingly indifferent to the murder story. "Apparently he went mad with grief and killed himself before they could find him, taking the secret with him to the grave. They've spent decades trying to replicate the vaccine but haven't gotten anywhere with it."

"You mean that they failed to develop a viable cure."

_Ah. _

The pieces were coming together, he could see it now, but there was still just one more thing.

"Do you know where Sabren's other residences are?" He asked.

"I told you." Irene repeated. " I've never met the Duke."

"But you knew his associates intimately and given your taste for luxury, it's obvious you've spent a few nights with them at Sabren's domiciles." Sherlock mused aloud. "Surely one must come into mind."

"And why would you care where I spent my nights?" Irene rose from her seat. Within a few steps, she was only a handbreadth away from Sherlock. She tilted her face towards him, letting the light give her cheeks superb definition. Her prismatic blue eyes were shown to great effect, fringed with bristly black lashes that were angled in hauteur.

"The addresses, Ms. Adler." Sherlock did not waver from his original point.

"That information comes with a price." Irene leaned in close. "A kiss."

"You owe me. It was never the other way around."

"So bashful towards physical affection...it's no wonder that Moriarty called you the Virgin." She whispered. "But I've seen how you really are. Beneath all that ice is fire."

She clasped her hands around his neck then edged her lips towards his own when quietly, but firmly, Sherlock unlocked her grasp. He held her wrists but would not permit her to come any further. Their eyes affixed on one another in a kind of stalemate in which neither side was willing to call checkmate. But for a woman so clever and well-versed in power plays, one of the few who could match him in strategem, she saw right through him.

"I don't believe it." Irene regarded Sherlock in wonder. "You've been plucked." She dropped her hands and looked at him as though she were seeing him for the first time. "So I take it that you and the good doctor have finally consummated your relationship. I suppose congratulations are in order."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Ah." Irene said after observing him at length. "...who is she?"

A name would have been sufficient but there was more to it than that. There was the time with the broken breakfast tray, the hours spent on the sofa poring through cold cases, a genuine smile of happiness caught between sheets, the cheek it took to steal a violin from an old flat, and the compassionate hands that had bound his wounds for months. Could he explain all this to Irene? There were no adequate words to describe the courage and beauty Molly had displayed in the face of danger. Even under confinement, he never saw her buckle under pressure.

Irene too had proven herself formidable in stressful situations yet hers was a different kind of bravery, one that did not spring from sacrifice for the good of others but self-preservation.

"Someone who doesn't use cunning and violence for her selfish wants." Sherlock answered.

Irene stiffened, knowing at once what he was alluding to.

"Don't be so unkind." She said when she recovered. "I won't forgive you the next time that you are."

Sherlock merely gazed at her.

"You have the vaccine, don't you?" Irene guessed rightly. "I don't know how you got it but that's why you want to know where Roland is." Her eyes widened as she reached her own conclusions. "You said you were threatened by the Duke. I assume then he has her and is trying to force you into a trade."

"I know he does." There was a definitive finality in his voice.

"So you plan to take on the Four." Irene was not impressed. "You're more of a goody-two shoes than I thought. How disappointing."

"I'm not an opportunist unlike yourself."

"Yes but the difference between us is that when I misbehave, I know how not to get caught and be punished. You on the other hand go headlong into danger."

"I don't have time for your riddles." Sherlock said coldly. "Give me the addresses."

"I'm not playing, I'm warning you." Irene's eyes flashed. "Don't get carried away by overconfidence. We both know how that turned out when Jim Moriarty died. You're in the shadows like me, forced into an incognito existence and have yet to restore your 'good name,' my dear detective. The Duke is a chivalrous killer. A perfect gentleman but a killer nonetheless. I wouldn't even be surprised if the other three are like him so take my advice for what it's worth or you'll regret it."

She paused.

"I know of five properties. One is in Ireland, the second is in France, and the third in Majorca. The two remaining are here. I doubt he would use his main residence as his base so if you believe that your damsel-in-distress is still in this country, she'll be at his secondary state home."

"What's the name?"

"Bilmore Manor."

.

.oOo.

.

Sometime around midnight, a vexed Mrs. Hudson banged on the door of 221B and when John answered it, the landlady threw a bag of sandwiches at him.

"How on earth are you hungry at this hour?" Mrs. Hudson demanded as she stood on the threshold in her purple dressing gown. Her brown curls were coming out of their sleeping cap. "And you owe me quite a bit of money! I paid _thirty quid _to the delivery boy, would you believe it?"

"A lot." John deftly lied, taking the sandwiches at once. "And thank you for taking care of the bill, I'll pay you back in the morning, I promise. I'm sorry they woke you up."

"Oh what would you boys care if my sleep was disrupted? Don't you remember Sherlock harpooning the wall at all hours of the night..."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." John shut the door.

Immediately, he went over to the dining room table and upon upending the bag, he found a note hiding amongst the small pile of sandwiches.

_Found Briar Rose. Bilmore Manor. Connect Lumiere and Magician. _

.

.oOo.

.

For days, Molly lay prostrate in bed.

In addition to trauma, terror was partly keeping her confined to an invalid state. She was watched closely and carefully; a medical personnel came by at every hour to check her progress. Monitors kept track of her vitals and each baby. Female attendants fretted about her like agitated moths as they tried to get her to eat but her appetite had been eliminated to the point that an IV was placed and a feeding tube was discussed.

A curious change to Molly's routine as the captive was that Edward Sabren increased his presence. She was insensate for the first day but after she recovered, she realised that he was demanding progress reports. He even went so far as making the primary decisions over her medical treatment. She was not sure what had inspired this newfound interest in Edward and it only added more confusion as well as discomfort to her present situation.

On one particular evening, she awoke to find the ducal heir sitting by her bedside.

"I'm sorry Dr. Hooper." Edward curtly apologised. "I'll leave you to your rest." He was about to rise from his seat when Molly caught his wrist and held on with a surprising amount of strength.

"Please." She implored. "Please help me."

Edward enwrapped his free hand around the offending limb and gently pried it off. "You need to sleep."

"Your father is going to kill me, you know he will."

Finally, the statement produced a visible reaction. His face whitened then flushed. "You don't know him." He said as though trying to convince himself. "You don't know what my father is like. He is a man of his word, it's true, but he is also an honourable one. As long as Mr. Holmes gives him what he needs, he won't harm you ever again. I promise."

"I get it." Molly croaked. "My dad was one of the people I loved best. I'm sure you feel the same about yours and I don't know what I can do to prove it to you but your father doesn't want to keep me alive. He's only doing this to provoke Sherlock. This was never about you or me, it's between them alone."

Edward drew himself up. "My father is a duke of one of the most distinguished houses in England. Everything he has done has been for the benefit of our family. I know his ways are unorthodox but it is how he protects my interests."

"Please, don't go. You have to listen to me."

"You will be safe. It's only a few more days." Edward reassured her. "You will all be safe."

"No..." She whispered as she watched him depart from the room. "No, we won't."


	9. Chapter 9

"Have you got it?" Sherlock wasted no time as he barged into 221B.

"Where_ the hell_ have you been?" John stepped into the living room to find him in the midst of tearing off a hotel bellhop uniform. "Do you know what time it is?"

"What does it matter? You're up anyway." Sherlock snapped. "We've got to get moving. Did you connect with Mycroft and Lestrade?"

"Yeah, they're standing by, waiting for you like I've been doing for the last six hours."

"Good, you need to tell them to assemble officers and medical staff for the LiveWorld Charity Concert."

"Wait, wait, what?" John stared after Sherlock in confusion. "What're you talking about?"

"The Eye." Sherlock said. "Sabren wanted me to meet the Eye."

"And...?"

Sherlock sighed in frustration.

"The virus, John, it's been the keystone for Sabren's organisation. He and three others-the Four-they're going to try to release the damn thing but they can't do it without having the vaccine first. The location where Sabren wants to meet me happens to be adjacent to the concert and that is_ not_ a coincidence.

"I found out that there's going to be masses of pharmaceutical executives and affiliated scientists who'll attend so they're planning to infect everyone there. It's the perfect way to eliminate a slew of competitors and buy time to mass-produce then sell their cure to the highest bidders."

"So you're saying there's going to be a pandemic within the next forty-eight hours.." John's head was reeling from the information. "Who is 'The Four'?"

"I don't know, Sabren's apparently in some criminal cub with three others. My contact couldn't tell me who they were. But I've got enough forewarning for a counterstrike and to get Molly before the exchange." Sherlock rambled on. "I'll get Mycroft to force MRC or anyone else to reverse-engineer the virus characteristics from the vaccine so they can at least have an adequate supply. Then at the time of the event, Lestrade can switch out all the catering and wait staff with his own officers so a quarantine can be set up. Everyone and everything at that concert will be on lockdown until any risk of infection has been lessened."

John nodded as he swept through Sherlock's strategy with a critical mind experienced in military tactics. "All right, I get what you're saying. I'm guessing that the exchange will be the diversion and you'll have a separate team to infiltrate the manor to rescue Molly."

"Exactly." Had Sherlock a more emotive personality, he would have been exultant.

"Okay, okay. I think this might actually work." John drew in a shaky breath as he gave his approval. "But how are you going to get Sabren? How are you going to find out about the others?"

For the first time in days, a shadow of Sherlock's former self reappeared. An enigmatic, darkly clever smile lit Sherlock's features with all the cunning in the world.

"I have an idea."

.

.oOo.

.

The sun sank into the horizon as a blood-red pool, casting deep golden and fuschia colours into the sky. The manicured gardens of Bilmore Manor lay in resplendent green glory and set the stage for a beautiful afternoon.

Sabren admired his grounds as far as his eyes could see. The property was not as grand as the Kendal Estate but it was a suitable summer home and had served his needs well enough. Turning away from the view, he walked back to the balcony to where Molly was sitting in a wheelchair. He had had her brought out on the pretense to enjoy the fresh air and converse with her for the last time.

Her haggard appearance betrayed her exhaustion yet Sabren could still see a veneer of attractiveness left in her face. She was not conventionally beautiful in the way of the runway models that were ubiquitous these days. She was a real English rose in every sense of the word, a fact that he commented on.

"Did you know, Dr. Hooper, that Sherlock had assigned code names for everyone in his communiques with Mycroft?" Sabren asked. "Yours was Briar Rose."

When she didn't respond, he went on.

"Your birth name is Margaret Rose is it not? You happen to have the same name as the Queen's sister. I suppose Sherlock thought it natural to bestow upon you another appellation that was shared by another princess. I doubt he ever realised that this would be the real-life role he cast for you."

"What is that?" Molly finally asked.

"The endangered damsel, imprisoned in a castle and placed under a powerful spell." Sabren said. "Her only hope of rescue being that of a brave knight willing to take on the dragon."

"So how does this story end?"

"That, my dear," Sabren replied in a quiet voice, "is entirely up to Sherlock."

His gaze returned to the heavens.

"I have been reliably informed from my medics that your pregnancy has not been compromised."

Molly's hands trembled but she forced herself to remain absolutely still. She would not give this man anymore satisfaction in seeing her will be broken.

"Tell me," Sabren clasped his hands behind his back, "why do you love him?"

"Why does that even matter to you?" Molly could barely suppress her anger.

"You are an anomaly. I'd like to keep you preserved for as long as I can. You are the recipient of affections from a man who is famous for his lack of 'heart' so to speak. Yet here you are...bearing the final proof of his love and look where it has got you."

The scorn in his voice was unmistakable.

"So tell me, how did you come to love this creature? Indulge an old man's whim."

Molly laid a hand against her burgeoning belly, the warmth of her palm traveling beyond the taut skin and tissue. A flutter of a kick and a subtle roll answered her. What else could she do? She was a prisoner here and if this was what her captor was demanding, a story that is, she could not deny the request.

"I fell in love with him at first sight." She replied with raw honesty. "I couldn't stop thinking about him the moment I saw him. He's so intelligent, you know, and I thought he was cool but not really. I'm not some hopeless romantic, I've never allowed myself to be that way. I'm a sensible girl, I always have been. I had all these plans."

Her throat tightened and she could feel her eyes burning.

"He ruined everything."

All the anger, resentment, heartbreak, and anguish that she felt when it came to Sherlock Holmes were unleashed in that single utterance.

"And did he ever do anything to merit these feelings?" Sabren question's stung like salt to the wound.

"No." Molly wanted to laugh but instead it came out as a sob. "No, he would say horrible things to me. I'd try to be nice but he'd basically tell me to piss off. He was so mean and I realised that I didn't count to him at all. People who know him, they'd tell you that I was just a shag that he won't remember or care for."

"But it's really strange," she smiled tremulously, "he's also the best thing that's ever happened to me. Maybe it makes me the biggest fool in the world. He says what he says but we both know he's got a heart and that he cares for people. He'll do anything to keep them safe."

"What proof do you have for such a conviction?"

"Because I count. I always have."

The sun slipped away and a shadow fell across the gardens, eclipsing Molly's face in darkness.

"It is a pity." She heard Sabren say. "I don't believe Sherlock will ever understand the true extent of how much you love him. I don't know whether to admire or discount your convictions. But if it's any consolation, I never had confidence that he would be a good husband or father to you and your children. It's better that you all perish before suffering through that mistake."

.

.oOo.

.

"_In other news, thanks to the participation of major pharmaceutical companies and the combined efforts of the United Kingdom peerage, the annual LiveWorld Charity Concert will be taking place tonight at the Eye. A gala has been scheduled as a glamourous prelude to the night's festivities in the heart of the city..." _

"_...and our top story tonight, the largest philanthropic event of the year is about to hit it off once again! Official spokesmen for the LiveWorld Charity organisation say that they are excited about this summer's billing artists and have experienced unprecedented ticket sales..." _

"_Lord Roland Sabren, one of the major sponsors for LiveWorld Charity, has reiterated the organisation's goals to provide as many health prophylactics and immunisations in order to eliminate widespread but curable diseases within developing countries..." _

"_Good evening London! This is Thomas Phillips, speaking to you live from the concert here in the city tonight! Over three thousand tickets have been sold-can you believe it?! There's also a black-tie gala at the Connaught. The guest list is said to be star-studded featuring not only celebs but execs from every major pharmaceutical company and top researchers from around the globe..." _

.

.oOo.

.

Dvorak's violin concerto swept in thrilling, deep notes as light scattered throughout the hotel ballroom. Crystal glasses of Dom Perignon winked and flashed as they were held aloft. Plates of priceless Sèvres porcelain gleamed on heavy white tablecloths and were accented by silverware from Christofle.

Divine aperitifs were being served by waiters in smart black jackets, boasting a range of imported food luxuries that included _pâté_, beluga sturgeon caviar, and exquisite truffles from the forests of Spain. An impressive array of seafood caught fresh from the English and Scottish coastlines was laid out for the guests to savour. But the dinner spread that was scheduled to be served promised to be nothing short of magnificent.

Sherlock calmly meandered with the crowd of illustrious gentlemen in white-tie and ladies clothed in the finest couture. His hair had been cut, combed, and styled as like any other dandy would for an event like this. A sleek Burberry suit flattered his tall frame. He appeared every inch a sophisticate and the disguise allowed him easy access into the hotel despite the hoards of press as well as security milling the premises.

Everywhere he looked, he saw notable scientists and high-profile executives who had been regularly featured in top magazines and newspapers. Even the director of CERN and several Ministers had shown up. Sabren had certainly chosen an illustrative list of targets to kill.

"_Sherlock? Are you there?" _A voice buzzed in his ear through the tiny bluetooth device that nestled on the inner groove.

"Shut up." Sherlock murmured. "Try not to talk to me too much, you'll compromise me."

"_Oh please_." John snorted "_I'm stuck in a van with special ops forces here en-route to the middle of bloody nowhere whereas you're in a five-star hotel, rubbing your elbows with the posh boys, and trying to act all cool like James Bond._"

"You're a soldier. You've got military experience, it was logical to put you in an operation where you could use your skills in."

"_Don't give me that rubbish, you're just there for the food._"

Even in a high-stress situation, Sherlock could not help but grin.

He scanned the ballroom and systematically filtered through each face. He dismissed the women and the young, concentrating on the older males. It did not take long to find who he was seeking.

Sabren was surrounded by a cluster of aristocrats, calmly quaffing what appeared to be a vintage brandy. He made a dignified figure in the crowd with his white-tie attire and broad riband that signified his courtly rank. Sherlock watched his enemy from a good distance of thirty feet. The desire to take out a gun and shoot the duke in front of the whole world rushed through him like a flash of heat. Yet his will, as cold and unyielding as iron, quickly overcame the feeling.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please seat yourselves. At this time, the presentation is about to begin." A charity representative announced as soon as he stepped up to the stage.

Sherlock slinked away, walking in the opposite direction of the crowd then disappearing out of sight.

As soon as the attendees had settled down, the representative greeted them with a flowery but short speech with the usual courtesies.

"...we at the LiveWorld Charity organisation are profoundly grateful to have such distinguished guests here with us tonight. The board of trustees would like to acknowledge, in particular, Lord Greyham and Lord Sabren, for their efforts as well as contributions to our cause."

A hearty round of applause followed in which Lord Greyham and Sabren both inclined their heads to the crowd and gave polite waves.

"We also would like to thank Mr. Shigeru Ito of Lumin Pharmaceuticals..."

Sabren turned back to his table when he felt his mobile vibrating against the underside pocket of his dinner jacket. Mildly surprised, he slipped his hand to his left and drew out the gadget to see a text message alighting his screen.

_30 June 19:35_

_I have what you want. I'm at the rooftop. - [Unlisted]_

Sherlock, it appeared, was early and decided to take the meeting into his own hands had he? No matter. As far as the duke was concerned, he knew he held far more leverage in this deal and felt he had intimidated Sherlock enough to show he wasn't bluffing.

_30 June 19:37_

_I know about the other Three. - [Unlisted]_

An ugly frown appeared on Sabren's face.

_30 June 19:38_

_I'm sure they are wondering who you are talking to on your private mobile, the one that only you use to communicate with them. Perhaps they are wondering what is going on. Why aren't you paying attention? -[Unlisted]_

The Japanese executive was on the stage now, accepting an award and graciously smiling for the cameras but his eyes were fixed on the duke in a glare. Another American businessman was also looking at him as though concerned whilst to the far left, an Indian dignitary was watching with inscrutable dark eyes.

Immediately Sabren started punching on the keys of his Blackberry and shot out three more text messages.

_30 June 19:39 _

_LEAVE NOW. ALL OF YOU. - R.S. _

"If you'll excuse me, I need to step out for a moment." The duke apologised as he rose from his table. Quietly, he made his exit, ignoring the curious stares of the other diners. With a quick motion, he signaled a pair of private guards waiting at the doors to follow him into the hotel lift.

"I want your weapons out." Sabren ordered as he pushed the button for the topmost floor and the doors slid to a close.

When the lift opened, the trio stepped out. A collection of vibrant-coloured cabanas and lounge chairs were scattered about the rooftop poolside. There was a small bar stand outfitted with large quantities of imported alcohol and a pair of LCD flat screens for the hotel guests to view but they were turned off. Aside from the man standing at the counter, there was no one else.

"Mr. Holmes, I presume." Sabren greeted.

"Care for a drink, Lord Sabren? I hear the Connaught has excellent brandy."

Sabren walked towards the bar and rested an arm on the counter edge. His men followed closely but stopped short when the duke held up his hand. Sherlock could see two pistols equipped with silencers that were readied and pulled out.

"You're a day early." Sabren commented. "I believe I told you I would be meeting you at the Eye."

"I didn't want to waste anymore time." Sherlock coolly replied. His hand dug into his pockets, eliciting the guards to draw out their guns. Dismissing their reaction, he drew out the decayed string of pearls and handed it to Sabren. "Your treasure."

Sabren ran his fingers over the ruined bauble and looked closely at the beads, discerning markings that had been deeply scratched in as though by a laser.

"The vaccine." Sherlock identified. "It's what you and your men have been looking for all this time. Since my memory serves better than everyone, you and I have a deal to discuss."

"Yes." Sabren agreed after a long but satisfied pause when he saw that the pearls indeed carried what he needed. "Yes, we do."

"Where is Molly?"

"The girl is safe."

"Then have your men bring her here. Now."

Sabren spared a backward glance at his aides. "Inform the others. Please have Dr. Hooper escorted to the hotel."

It wasn't until the guards had left, albeit reluctantly, that Sherlock got the ball rolling on the conversation.

"I think it's time for you to answer some questions. You owe me that, at least, after what you've done tonight."

"Careful, Mr. Holmes." Sabren warned. "Unlike your brother and Dr. Watson, I have little patience for your impertinence."

"You've been after me since day one." Sherlock hardened his gaze. "What I want to know is why did Dr. Small go to my father for this? How did you find out that he even had it?"

"I would have thought, given your talents, that you had figured that out already. But you are right about one thing. I have been seeking you since James Moriarty brought you to my attention." Sabren's explanation was dry but forthcoming. "I blame his stupidity for attracting your notice to our business operatives."

"You mean allowing the public to hire people to commit murder and thefts for any petty excuse."

"For a price." Sabren corrected. "James was careless and I made sure that he paid for it in the end."

Sherlock paused in thought and when the realisation came, his face relaxed into a mocking smile. "I see. You _meant_ for him not to live. That's why Moriarty erased his identity and killed himself. You were allowing him to play his game with _me_ whilst forcing him to remove any trace of his involvement with_ you_. That's an efficient way of cleaning up a mess if I haven't heard of one."

"I meant for you to also be eliminated." Sabren said. "James failed in that regard but your disappearance gave me time to restructure."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You have other enterprises?"

"Drug trafficking and insider trading. Very profitable, I can assure you as a long-time investor. The premiums are worth the risk."

"The Agra Virus."

"A thirty-year old project designed to enrichen the interests of mine and my colleagues." Sabren seated himself on the bar stool. "You have no idea how much money and blood went into the vaccine that you so carelessly held in your possession all this time. I'm certain you have guessed the logistics of the plan and thanks to your cooperation, we can fulfill it at last. We attempted to manufacture a suitable vaccine but the virus itself is potent. It's been killing off every medium and we've been trying for a long time. It's virulency is promising, Mark Small performed admirably in that regard."

"You mean the scientist that you hired and had killed."

The duke scoffed. "Have you made Mark into a martyr? He was a greedy, disillusioned man who was unhappy with his career. Academic salaries are small, you know, and he had a growing family. He wanted success and a fast track to wealth."

"But you cheated him out of it."

"It was necessary." Sabren said. "My partners and I thought our threats to harm his wife and daughters were enough to keep him quiet. But what happened was that Mark had a change of conscience and he feared for his life. That's what drove him to the one man whom he thought could save him: your father."

"My father was a solicitor, there was nothing he could've done for Dr. Small."

"Siger was more than that, my dear fellow. He was one of the leading advocates for biotechnology and contributed substantially to patent laws in regards to that field. He was not only a renowned expert but well-versed in law. For Mark, Siger was the perfect guardian because he knew your father would understand the science and significance of the Agra Virus. He was hoping your father could use his legal clout to prosecute me and my group. I'm surprised you know so little of Siger's career."

"Law was not a primary interest for me."

"And yet you work in criminal justice."

"I prefer the term consulting detective."

"We are getting into semantics." The duke said as he clasped his hands. "Your father however never got the chance to take me head on. I sent orders out to kill Mark's family and when that was done, Mark went ballistic. He shot himself before I could get to him. Here I can only speculate but my guess is that your father, seeing what happened to Mark, became afraid for himself and for his own family.

"Siger decided to not go through with the prosecution because he knew that he would be targeted. But he must have suspected that the virus could still be released at some point in the future so he retained and encoded the vaccine formula onto these pearls. An interesting choice but a clever way to hide my treasure in his wife's jewels. A disguise in plain sight."

"So why give them to me?" Sherlock asked.

"Your parents were well aware of what gifted children they had." Sabren answered for him. "I have no doubt that Siger was confident you had the capability to discern what he had left you and that you would understand."

"And how did you find out that my father had it all this time?"

"You can thank Moriarty for that." The duke said. "He unwittingly gave me information that Siger and Mark had contact with each other. When James was captured by MI6 and he was being interrogated, your brother Mycroft recounted the day that Mark—or George—as you both knew him had visited your home once. Mycroft described this man as the closest thing, however brief the encounter, you had to a friend when you were a child.

"When James told me about him, I knew at once who it was and that was when I realised that Siger held the formula. I suppose everything fell into place after that. I saw that you were alive and my men figured out you were in a relationship with Dr. Hooper so I took her as leverage."

"Well played, Your Grace." Sherlock coldly appraised.

"I had a good hand." Sabren acknowledged with a slight bow.

"Undoubtedly." Sherlock reached over the counter and rested his hand on a remote control. "But I have a royal flush."

He clicked the telly on.

Both screens flickered into life to show Sabren's face staring ahead and a view of the hotel ballroom. There was a commotion going on. Several of the dinner guests rose from their chairs, others gasped, and the announcer was scrambling on the stage to regain order. Instead of a presentation on the skrim, a live feed of Sabren and Sherlock were broadcasted for the whole world to see.

"Smile for the cameras."

What little colour was in Sabren's face drained as he saw a reflection of himself on the television screen. Though unseen from before, he could discern a tiny lens poking out from a few of the display bottles at the bar. Enraged, he turned to see Sherlock survey him in grim victory. He curled his hand into a tight fist.

"_Sherlock? Can you hear me?" _John's voice buzzed in Sherlock's ear.

"John. I'm just done with the video conference." Sherlock answered, his eyes never leaving Sabren. "Everyone knows now. I'm alive, James Moriarty was who he said he was, and his lordship just confirmed not only the existence of his criminal organisation but his willing cooperation. He even identified his 'colleagues' by singling them out without meaning to. The first three men that left are the ones, aren't they? You told them to leave."

Sabren could only gaze at him.

"Oh don't look so hopeful, Your Grace. It doesn't become you." Sherlock ridiculed in a low voice. "Thanks to my brother's assistance, the other three have been captured. They never left the hotel grounds."

A hoard of MI5 agents burst out onto the rooftop. Still dressed as waiters and hospitality staff, they shouted at Sabren to lower himself to the ground as they aimed their guns at him. The duke, overpowered, was compelled to oblige and went down on his knees.

"_Listen, Sherlock, there's something wrong." _John's voice crackled in Sherlock's ear. "_The Ops team and I made it to Bilmore but..."_

"But what?"

"_Molly isn't here. We've looked everywhere in the house, there's no one here but a couple of nurses. We can't find her." _

Sherlock froze. An awful sense of dread overcame him, negating whatever feelings of triumph and satisfaction he had gained. Noticing his reaction, Sabren managed to smirk from the ground.

"Did you really think I was going to go down easy, Mr. Holmes?"

.

.oOo.

.

"Where are we going?" Molly asked as Edward half-dragged and pulled her by the arm. Carrying a gun in his other hand, he forced her to go deeper into the garden maze. Behind them, pinprick lights from the Special Ops teams' weapons flashed in the darkness. Unfamiliar voices called out to each other as the team infiltrated through every corner of the manor.

Molly could feel her sides burning and when she heard the first exchange of gunfire, her panic rose to an all-time high. She didn't understand what was going on. She had gone to bed when she was roughly woken up by one of the medical staff. Then Edward came into her room with a weapon and ordering her IVs to be stripped off, they fled the manor.

"Ned, please."

"Shut up." Edward snapped. "Just shut up and keep walking. If you try to escape..."

Molly cried out as she felt a sharp cramp run through her body. She bent forward, unable to move.

"Come on!" Edward roughly pulled her up.

"What are you doing?" She gasped.

"My father's been compromised. He sent out a distress signal from his mobile a couple minutes ago." Edward hurriedly explained. "Half of Scotland Yard is here. I have to get to the helicopter, it's just beyond the woods. It'll take us to Zurich, my safehouse. The Swiss will not extradite me."

"You're out of your mind." Molly could feel her legs going weak. She was too exhausted to tell Edward that depending on international law to be on his side was ludicrous. "You're never going to make it."

"_Quiet!_" Edward hissed. Suddenly, he withdrew and aimed the gun at her. "This is all of your fault! You're the reason they're here."

"Calm down, you're not thinking straight." Molly held up her hand whilst the other clutched her belly. She winced in pain then fell to her knees. Beads of sweat moistened her forehead. Her hair hung limply around her like an effervescent curtain around her face.

"You don't understand, you will never understand." Edward ground out. "I am the last of patrilineal descendant. My father did all of this for me, for our house, our legacy. And now, thanks to you and Sherlock Holmes, we have nothing."

He unlocked the safety.

"Please don't do this." Molly begged in a hoarse voice. "Please. I know you're a good person. You're not like your dad. You tried to protect me and you've been looking after me, haven't you? You kept me safe."

"_And for what?_" Edward venomously asked her. "For _what_?"

"Mercy." She whispered.

"I tried to do the right thing by you." The barrel of the gun gleamed in the darkness. "And this is what I'm repaid with."

The bullet hit her so swiftly, suddenly, that it took Molly several seconds to fall. At first she felt a kind of cool heat, not unlike the taste of peppermint on one's tongue, spread throughout her shoulder. Blood bloomed in her shirt. Her head met the dewy grass whilst her eyes turned to the heavens. Dried leaves crunched underneath her weight and when she tried to raise herself up, she found she couldn't.

"_STAND DOWN! STAND DOWN!" _Someone was shouting.

"_Put your hands up in the air!" _

"_WE'RE WARNING YOU!" _

A series of shots rang out into the night and Molly saw the blurry outline of Edward Sabren's body hit the ground in a kind of dull finality. The gun lay next to him, useless. She stared after the corpse of her would-be saviour and felt nothing but pity followed by regret.

"Molly? MOLLY?" She heard a voice call out.

Slowly, she turned her head to see a man clothed in black and outfitted in a military vest. His head was covered by a helmet and in his right hand, he carried a high-calibre rifle. Dirt scattered as he dropped to his knees and reached out to cradle her face with his heavily gloved hand.

"Molly, it's John. Can you hear me?" John asked in a loud voice. He touched her shoulder and was rewarded with blood from the contact. "Oh my god—!"

"John..." Molly felt relief wash over her. "I'm...so..._glad_...to see you."

"It's all right, it's going to be fine. You'll be fine. We're going to take you to a hospital. You and the babies will be safe." John reassured as he tried to assess her wound. He turned to the special ops team members who continued to scout the maze with their weapons readied and began to shout. "We need an ambulance! Get them here NOW!"

"John..."

"Just stay still, you're going to be fine. Sherlock's coming. We've stopped most of Sabren's men and we got the bastard arrested." John rambled as he prepared a tourniquet.

"I want you to save them."

"Molly, don't —"

"Save them no matter what happens to me." Her eyes were dark and full of conviction.

"That's enough. Don't talk like that, you need to hold on. Sherlock's coming."

"Can you...make sure...he reads to them?"

John stared at her, taken aback by this request. "Of—of course he'll read to them. He's Sherlock, he'll probably read every book in the world and make the library their second home." He said, trying to be light-hearted.

Molly gave a throaty laugh. "Please...remind him...to keep them warm...and hold...hold them..."

"You don't ever need to worry." John tightened and pressed the binding. His sight blurred when she cried out in pain. "Me, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft...we're not going to let the boys starve or be left alone. They'll be loved. Stop talking like you're not going to be here to be part of that."

"But it's bad, isn't it?" She smiled as tears rolled down her cheeks.

"No, it's not." John shook his head in denial. "Lestrade's with Sherlock and they're coming here right now, they're coming to see you."

A heavy sleep drew over Molly. Her limbs relaxed as a coolness descended upon her and her eyelids were starting to close. With the last of her strength, she reached for John's hand.

"Molly, no." John's voice cracked with emotion. "No. Don't do this to him. You don't know what he's been like without you. He's gone bloody mad and if you leave like this...he's going to be lost forever. He'll change and it won't be for the better so you've got to stay. For him, for the kids."

"But if I can't..." She whispered as she sank into the dark. "...tell them I love them."

"You've got to fight this, stay with me."

"I've always been so in love with him, I wish he knew." She murmured as her hand fell away.

"He knows that. He does, I know he does, but you have to tell him—it has to come from you. Molly? _Molly!_"

.

.

.

.

.oOo.

.

.

.

.

A police car blitzed across the traffic-laden streets of London, it's sirens piercing through the night with its high-pitched wail and flashing lights. The driver was sweating in anxiety as his two passengers, senior detective inspector Lestrade and Great Britain's most famous detective were in the backseat, sat in stony silence as they sped out of the city.

A mobile rang and immediately Lestrade answered it.

"Lestrade, here. What is it?"

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock turned to his side.

He watched the facial movements and with a pang that he couldn't quite explain, he saw Lestrade's eyes blacken and the crease in his forehead deepen as the voice on the phone continued to speak. A chill swept over him as his mind made its conclusion, a deduction that he wanted to deny and refute with every fibre of his being.

Lestrade's mobile slid down the side of his face and was clicked off.

For an unbearable moment, neither men would look at each other until at last, Lestrade mustered up his courage to face Sherlock. He opened his mouth, tried and failed to speak, then at the third attempt he found his voice.

"Sherlock..."

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.oOo.

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	10. Chapter 10

"_Breaking news...a shocking and unexpected turn of events at the LiveWorld charity gala..."_

"_Sherlock Holmes, the infamous consulting detective who committed suicide last year has been found alive. In an amazing upset, he's declared himself back into the public eye and sent a live video stream broadcasted at the LiveWorld charity ball that shows him conversing with the Duke of Kendal where the latter admits to being involved in criminal activities..."_

"_...Roland Sabren, the Duke of Kendal has been arrested on charges of insider trading, drug trafficking, kidnapping, and murder. These allegations come on the heels of a majorly controversial video conference that was streamed on the Internet and to the LiveWorld charity attendees...authorities taped off the entire Connaught Hotel and the London Eye to assess possible any effects the public may have to a biochemical weapon released..."_

"_In terms of whereabouts, Sherlock Holmes is reported to have been taken to a local district general hospital where his partner Dr. Molly Hooper, allegedly kidnapped by the Duke of Kendal, is being treated for serious injuries...the LiveWorld concert was abruptly halted and has been canceled by authorities..."_

"_Scotland Yard has yet to release any statements at this time other than that after a 47 hour quarantine, all attendees of the LiveWorld concert and charity gala were unharmed and that all samples of the virus found in the possession of the Duke of Kendal and three unidentified men were destroyed..."_

"_...a strong tide of rumours have been rising on the Internet that Lord Sabren's only son, Edward, the heir to the Kendal dukedom was shot down by Special Ops forces for having fatally wounded a female hostage..."_

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.oOo.

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In an uncharacteristic show of urgency, Mycroft stormed into the main lobby of St. Mary's Hospital where he had been told that Sherlock had gone. The end of his wool coat whipped behind him as he briskly made his way to the foyer of the surgical waiting room. He came to a sudden halt when he saw Lestrade wearily leaning against the wall and John, still in his special ops gear, with his head in his hands.

"Where is he?" Mycroft demanded, startling both men.

"It's fine, he just went to the bathroom not even two minutes ago." Lestrade answered, knowing full well who Mycroft was referring to. "Molly's in surgery. You missed the update. A nurse came out to tell us that the kids were delivered. They're in NICU."

"You left Sherlock _alone_?" Mycroft snapped.

Lestrade stared after him in bewilderment. This was not the reaction he expected. Surely concern and relief would have been appropriate but anger?

"Did you hear what he just said? Your brother's sons were just born and their mother is still in surgery. We don't have time for your callousness, Mycroft." John's disgust was palpable.

"You misunderstand me." The elder Holmes looked deeply affronted. "Sherlock can't be left alone under any circumstances tonight. He must be put on watch. You have to find him."

"I just told you," Lestrade was annoyed, "he went to the bathroom."

"I have no doubt that was just an excuse to get away from you two." Mycroft brusquely replied. "He took advantage of the fact that you and Dr. Watson were distracted by an emotionally charged incident. Will you help me find him or not?"

"I'll go." John announced as he got up from his seat. "Greg, can you stay here in case the doctor or nurse comes back?"

"I will." Lestrade promised as Mycroft and John walked off in a huff to search for Sherlock.

"So where do we look?" John turned to the SIS operative. Normally, he himself had a shrewd idea of where Sherlock would run off to but in the extremity of the circumstances, John was willing to defer to Mycroft's deductions.

"The theatres." Mycroft was confident. "He's probably going to try to break into the PYXIS machines to access the narcotics that are kept in there."

"You need a keycode for that."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and did not bother to reply to this as he knew that was not enough of a barrier for Sherlock.

They raced down the halls and after using what amounted to threats as well as intimidation of the hospital staff, the men were allowed a brief access into the theatres. Many of the doctors and nurses that passed them stared after them in incredulity as neither men were in surgical attire, a requirement to preserve and maintain the sterility of the rooms.

When they reached theatre five, they spotted someone through the window. At first, he could have been misidentified as the anaesthetist with his scrubs and the way he was holding a vial aloft in the light. But he was scrutinising the drug far too closely, too slowly, too intensely.

"Sherlock, don't!" John burst into the room.

Sherlock barely spared a sidelong glance then returned his attention to the narcotic. Fentanyl. He had the syringe ready. His right arm was bare and a rubber tourniquet had been tied to encourage the veins to show. The ritual was as old and familiar to him like slipping a hand into a well-fitted glove.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" John approached but Sherlock merely stepped back. "Give that to me. Give it to me right now."

"You don't understand." The glass vial gleamed in the light and held a world of three faces in its transparent curve.

"If you put even one drop of that in your veins, I will make sure that you never see your children ever again." Mycroft vowed in a steely voice. "I swear I will use _every means I have at my disposal_for Edie and I to gain sole custody. You won't set a foot anywhere near them, I promise you."

"_Mycroft!_" John was horrified at what he saw as outright hate and an unnecessary hard stance.

"Molly's dead." Sherlock's eyes were on the syringe.

"No, no, she's not, Sherlock." John intervened before Mycroft say anything else. "She's in surgery and the progress is going good. She'll live. It wasn't a fatal wound."

"Dr. Watson is telling the truth." Mycroft affirmed. "Your sons were born a few minutes ago. You should see them."

"What for?" Sherlock asked blankly.

John flinched and even Mycroft, notorious for his stoicism, was taken aback.

"They're dying. All three of them are going to die and I won't be able to do anything about it." Sherlock's mind was anywhere else but in the present. The only thing that felt anything remotely close to logical amidst this chaos was the tangible promise of numbness that the opioid would provide.

"Sherlock, they're not dying." John insisted as he tried to pull Sherlock back into reason. "The twins are fine, they're just a bit underweight but they're healthy. They've been taken to intensive care."

Slowly, he made his way towards Sherlock and took hold of the hand that held the vial. With the aid of gentle pressure, he attempted to pry the drug away.

"You have to go see them. They're waiting for you."

"I couldn't save her." John could hardly recognise Sherlock's voice. It was unstable and heavy with a deep, penetrating sadness. "I did this."

"This wasn't your fault." John replied firmly.

"I almost got everyone killed. Including you."

"I think we can all agree that Moriarty was a maniac and Sabren was equally psychotic. Don't do this to yourself, you didn't hurt anyone."

But Sherlock would neither look at him nor drop the fentanyl.

It was only then did Mycroft understand exactly where and when Sherlock's mind was. Quietly, he stepped forward and laid his hand on the vial like John.

"It wasn't your fault." Mycroft replied in a regretful voice. "Mummy was too far gone. Neither yours, Father's, or my blood types were a match to her. That was something none of us could have helped no matter how much we wanted to save her. But that was almost twenty years ago. You have someone in your life now and a family to look after."

"I'm not..." Sherlock began. "I'm..."

"You'll be fine." John clasped a hand on his shoulder. "Look, there are so many people who want to help you and Molly. You're not going to be alone in this."

"Molly..." Sherlock murmured.

"She's safe." Mycroft emphasised. "But she won't be if you inject yourself with that narcotic and become insensate. You won't be any use to her or your sons at that point. They need you. You cannot fail in this regard."

He and John could feel Sherlock's hands relaxing then a second later, the vial was freed from its grip. The tourniquet was cut, the syringe discarded, and all that remained was a man left to his silent misery.

As if in a daze, Sherlock allowed himself to be led out of the theatre by Mycroft and John. When they reached the lifts, he awoke momentarily to make one request.

"I want to see her."

"You will, after the surgery." John said.

"No, I want to see her now."

"She's still being operated on. They won't let you inside."

Sherlock turned his cold blue eyes to his brother. "Then I'll wait for her."

"Fine." Mycroft made it no secret that he disapproved but he extended a hand and pushed the third floor button to descend back to the waiting area. It seemed to him that for Sherlock, when it came to familial duties, spousal devotion came first.

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.oOo.

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Nathaniel Gregson and John Christopher Holmes were born just past midnight on the first of July. Clocking in at roughly five pounds each although the latter weighed slightly more, the boys greeted the world with piercing pitiful cries. Their mother remained listless on the operating table, deep in the swaths of general anaesthesia. In breakneck speed, they were examined by a neonatologist then washed and blanketed off to the NICU.

For the first hour of their life, they lay in their incubators whimpering in fretful sleep until they were visited and welcomed by the men for whom they had been named for. Lestrade and John were the first ones to hold the twins but it was Mycroft, who eventually joined the nursery, who got to feed them.

Initially refusing to do so, John and the charge nurse egged him on until he agreed but only on the condition that someone else fed the other twin as he could not possibly hold two at once.

"I must say, this is rather dull." Mycroft dryly commented as he sat in a chair, attired in a sterile dressing gown and balancing Nathaniel in one arm whilst his other hand held a bottle from which the baby drank. He surveyed the infant dispassionately as Nathaniel's cheeks puckered and puffed around the rubber teat.

"You don't find them...I dunno...cute?" John queried as he held his namesake close to his chest and watched the baby drink in quiet content. Much to his delight, he found the newborns faces to be adorably round and beautifully pink. Good features to start with to win womanly affections.

"They don't do much at all, do they?" Mycroft frowned at his nephew who placidly continued to suck.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry to disappoint you but they won't be doing quantum physics any time soon. May want to give 'em a couple years."

"It's not that. I'm afraid they won't make very stimulating company for Sherlock." Mycroft assessed with heavy cynicism. "A pity, really."

"D'you think he'll be a good dad to them?" Lestrade strode over to where John was standing to affectionately tap the baby's head.

"I actually never thought about that, to be honest." John transferred his gaze from the newborn to Mycroft. "Then again, I never expected Sherlock to even _be_a dad let alone in a relationship. This is all new territory for me and it's bloody frightening."

Lestrade laughed but Mycroft, after mulling the inquiry in silence, he made his observations known.

"I am concerned."

"We all are." Lestrade said. "It's _Sherlock._I'll have you know Sally and Anderson were downright horrified when they found out he got Molly pregnant. They thought it was some kind of mistake made by the papers."

"Yeah, I'm still getting over it too." John concurred.

"I am _not_ assured that Sherlock will be an adequate parent." Mycroft overrode them. "He still has the habits and impulses of a child himself. He's not patient, he certainly isn't kind, and he readily dismisses anyone if he finds them uninteresting which he does the majority of the time. I do not believe that he is desirous or even capable of being a father...and that, troubles me deeply, as it will especially affect two innocent lives."

"That's pretty harsh, wouldn't you say?" Lestrade winced.

"It's the truth." Mycroft glanced at him. "Would you deny anything that I have said?"

"He's gotten a lot better." John was quick to come to Sherlock's aid. "You're right, he's not patient and he can be nasty to people but just look at what he did for Molly today. He saved her life and he worked hard to make sure that happened. He's also protected not only me but Greg and Mrs. Hudson. If he can do that for us, why can't he do the same for his boys?"

"I will take half the credit for that last bit." Mycroft's expression grew surly. "And for Margaret as well. I did have SIS keep watch on all of you."

"The point is, I trust him. I'm not saying it's going to be perfect and he's obviously going to make mistakes but I think he'll do right by Molly and the twins. We can all help him with that. I always thought he wasn't human but after all that's happened, I've seen that he actually does have a heart."

"So you think he will treat Margaret well." Mycroft's skepticism was hard to miss. "Can he love and be able to fully commit to this girl like any other?"

"No." John shifted the baby in his arms but his eyes never left Mycroft. "No, I reckon he loves her like Sherlock."

"What does that mean?"

"It means Sherlock, by whatever fluke in the universe or an act of God, saw something in Molly that he thought was worth counting. I don't think he came to any sudden realisations that he loved her, it worked its way through him in time and when he figured it out, he decided it was worth protecting. He fought for Molly and he'll do it again if he has to. He will never give up on her, you know how stubborn he is."

"Are you sure your confidence isn't misplaced?"

"He's your brother. Put a little faith in him."

At that, Mycroft seemed slightly ashamed and unable to say any more on the matter, he returned his attention to the baby.

"How's Sherlock doing by the way?" Lestrade pointedly asked to break the awkward silence that ensued.

"He hasn't left Margaret since the surgery ended." Mycroft stated. "He refuses to go anywhere beyond intensive care. I've taken the liberty of speaking with the staff and allowing him to sleep in her room for the time being. I trust you placed your officers in the ward?"

"I've sent my best guys. I've let them to know about Sherlock's...problem...and they'll watch him." Lestrade added. "Why are you calling Molly 'Margaret'?"

Mycroft sighed. "All right then. _Molly_. Thank you for your cooperation detective inspector."

" 'course. And uh...thank you, by the way." Lestrade suddenly became sheepish.

"For what?" Mycroft blinked in confusion.

"For, you know, naming one of the kids after me. It's a real honour, I don't even know what to say."

"That wasn't my doing, that was Sherlock's." Mycroft said. "He told me what he wanted to name them and when I asked him to wait until Molly was fully recovered, he was adamant. He claims that he knows exactly what she wants and that these names would be perfectly agreeable to her."

"Yeah, thanks Mycroft." John seconded.

"Is Sherlock ever going to come to see the kids? I mean, I know it's been only a couple of hours but still." Lestrade gazed at the babies in pity.

John and Mycroft exchanged significant looks with one another.

"I think," John paused, "we're going to have to wait a little on that one."

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.oOo.

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Thanks to Sherlock's astounding, if not dramatic, show of unmasking Sabren, the press had a field day.

The story of a seemingly benevolent philanthropist turned heartless criminal was so irresistible that it could not be ignored. It had to be feted as the highlight of the year and the trial that would inevitably ensue would be unforgettable.

The quarantine imposed by the HPA and maintained by Scotland Yard had set off a wildfire of panic in the city when news of the Agra Virus were leaked. A high-ranking American businessman Caleb Perrymore, the president of Lumen Pharmaceuticals Shigeru Ito, and a wealthy but minor Indian prince were outed as the members of The Four. As soon as the virus samples had been secured and it had been discovered that they had not been released, the media spotlight quickly shifted back to this notorious group and Sherlock.

Once a figure reviled for having deceived the public with his supposed intellectual prowess, Sherlock was now a hero and overnight his supporters came out in droves as the details of the Sabren case emerged. When they found out which hospital Molly had been taken to, masses of visitors left flowers and tokens in the lobby. Some even tried to infiltrate the maternity ward but, as Lestrade promised, Scotland Yard was able to repel them.

Unfortunately, before Mycroft had the opportunity to contact them, Molly's family found out about her status through the newspapers.

The widowed Mrs. Hooper was in a near catatonic state when she arrived at St. Mary's to see Molly and although she listened to Mycroft in polite silence as he explained the circumstances of what had happened, John was positive that the old woman was angry beyond belief. His theory was proven when she and Sherlock almost came to an ugly clash when she requested that Sherlock be removed from the ICU. When Molly's attending physician ventured on the subject, Sherlock did not even deign to look at him when he replied.

"I'm staying."

Mrs. Hooper, having to deal with her daughter's disappearance and sudden emergence into the national spotlight on top of discovering that she was now a grandmother, was overwhelmed. In asking Sherlock to leave, she made it clear that she neither had the time nor emotional reserves to be acquainted with the man whom her daughter was romantically involved with. It was only at John's intercession and good deal of persuasion on Mycroft's part that Mrs. Hooper backed down but already the seeds for a contentious relationship had been sown.

Molly remained in and out of consciousness, hardly knowing who was with her or what time it was. Sherlock endured through it all. Aside from getting up from time to time for a bathroom or coffee break, he sat beside her in what appeared to be an unending vigil.

When Edith and Mary finally came to visit the twins, albeit with difficulty in having to squeeze through a crush of reporters at the hospital gates, they were shocked to discover that Sherlock had not made any attempt to see his children. John and Mycroft were given the unfortunate task of having to explain why but found it to be an extremely uncomfortable experience. So much that it resulted in the latter being prevailed upon by his wife that this nonsense had to stop immediately.

On the third day, Mycroft visited the intensive care unit.

He found Sherlock exactly where he had been for the past several days: sitting to Molly's right, head leant to the side, and his weary eyes fixated on the woman lying in bed. He looked at her with a face as pallid as her own in an agony of silence. The nurse had combed and braided Molly's hair to the side as a convenient way to get it out of the way whilst she changed the dressings. She lay in repose, deep in sleep, far out of reach and even farther from presence of mind.

"It's not productive for you to remain here." Mycroft was brief and to the point. "Your absence in the nursery has been noted. People are beginning to talk."

"When have I ever cared about what others think of me?"

"Aren't you even curious to see what your own children look like?"

"My place is here."

"She doesn't even know that." Mycroft pointed out. "She won't regain lucidity for a while."

Sherlock tightened his grip on the armrest. "I have to be here when she wakes."

Mycroft opened his mouth to disagree when he caught sight of Molly's hand. There, on her fourth finger, was none other than his mother's engagement ring that he had surrendered to Sherlock. As if to reaffirm the conclusion he gathered, the diamond darkly gleamed at him under the fluorescent lights.

"Were you carrying around Mummy's ring the entire time?"

Sherlock said nothing.

But Mycroft understood the silence all too well. "When you disappeared last year, you could have chosen any safe house in the world. You had access to every protection that I afforded. Yet you selected her flat and stayed there far longer than you needed to. Why?"

Still, nothing.

"At some point, Sherlock, you are going to have to answer these questions. If not to me but for yourself. Your life has changed immeasurably in a short space of time. You now have people for whom you are responsible for and you will need to determine if you can give them all that they need. If they are worthy of you making sacrifices for their sake. You cannot leave this...puzzle...unsolved."

With that being said, Mycroft turned on his heel and left his brother alone to the cold sterility of the ward along with his thoughts.

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.oOo.

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"Hello my darling, hello! Hello!" Mary cooed at Nathaniel who lay in her arms, tucked into his swaddling clothes. The baby peered back at her with indifferent scrutiny and yawned extravagantly.

"Aren't they the sweetest little things?" Mrs. Hudson gushed. She had come to the maternity ward bearing gifts of packaged food and a piece of her mind that was quick to defend the Holmes family whenever she was accosted by paparazzi. After greeting John with kisses, he took her to the NICU and introduced her to the babies whom she immediately christened "Nat" and "Johnny" upon seeing them.

"They certainly have an endearing quality about them." Edith tentatively agreed. She, like all the others, had an overlay of sterile fabric over her clothes. She cradled Johnny's head within the palm of her hand and supported his back in the other but he seemed restless. He arched himself forward or would raise his leg or bootied hand upward as though he were trying to touch something he couldn't quite reach.

In contrast to Mrs. Hudson and Mary, Edith was less inclined to join in effusive displays of maternal affection but she did not discount the babies as unworthy of her attention. They were after all, she conceded, her nephews. In later years, she would openly acknowledge them with a strain of pride in her voice but at this initial meeting she was not thoroughly impressed with the newborns.

"I wonder, do you reckon they take after Sherlock or Molly?" Mrs. Hudson inquired to Mary.

"I don't know, it's too early to tell." Mary smiled at Nathaniel. "Babies change so much but I think they've got their dad's eyes and probably Molly's nose. What do you think, John? "

"I honestly don't know either." John replied candidly. He crossed his arms and watched the women nestle around the boys, feeling quite content in the nursery ward despite being outnumbered by his female counterparts. "I'm hoping they look more like their mum."

"Oh I don't think so." Edith said in grave authority. "The women that marry into the Holmes family don't contribute to it much at all where looks go, they all take after the men."

"Now Edie, that isn't true." Mary countered. "Locky has Aunt Violet's eyes and Myc got his hair from Grandmama Louise. She was a redhead." She added when John gave her a questioning look.

Edith tried to look underneath the baby's cap without pulling it off as though to discern if any of Sherlock's dark curly hair had appeared on the boy's head. "Time will tell."

"Well their mummy and daddy are lookers themselves. Either way, they'll turn out to be quite something!" Mrs. Hudson was optimistic in her prediction. She adoringly rubbed her forefinger against Nat's cheek. "John, how is our Molly doing today?"

"She's alot more stable." John said much to the ladies' collective relief. "It's touch and go mostly. She doesn't remember much of anything, but the internist said it's temporary."

"Anything we can do to help?" Mary asked as she moved Nat to rest on her shoulder.

"Has Sherlock eaten anything?" Mrs. Hudson sounded worried. "He looks rather peaky, don't you think so?."

Edith scoffed. "Unless its coffee or his dreadful cigarettes, no."

"...Hello."

Everyone turned to the door.

A tired, forlorn Sherlock had entered the NICU. He stood in stark contrast to the colorful nursery ward with his dark clothes. They all knew what attributed to the shadows underneath his eyes and his disheveled appearance. It took a few seconds longer for them to adjust themselves to how awkwardly he stood in the room. His supreme self-confidence and air of purpose seemed to have been sapped out of him.

"Mary." Sherlock stiffly acknowledged his cousin whom he had not seen in years then his sister-in-law. "Edie."

"Hello Locky." Mary's response was warm and without any trace of confrontation.

"I came to see..." Sherlock paused as he tried to become accustomed to the phrase. "...I want to see my sons."

The ladies exchanged a look of surprise with one another.

"Of...of course you can!" Mrs. Hudson was the first to find her wits and voice. "Come, come."

She guided him by the hand to a rocking chair. Galvanised into action, John produced a paper dressing gown and once Sherlock was situated, Edith brought Johnny over.

"Gently, now. That's it." Edith murmured as she transferred the baby into Sherlock's arms.

"Like this?"

"A little more support for his head...there, perfect." Edith encouraged as Sherlock carefully laid Johnny's head to rest at the crook of his left arm. Mary came next bringing Nat and a moment later, Sherlock found himself holding the two at once.

The scene was jarring one. It was simultaneously tender, unusual, yet profoundly moving all at once. With his dressing gown tuckering out in the edges, his gaze downward, and the babies looking so small in his arms, it was the picture that John thought he would never get to see in his lifetime: Sherlock the dad.

"Oh I have to get the camera!" Mrs. Hudson could hardly hide her excitement as she went straight for her purse to retrieve it.

"You look cute." Mary teased as she held out her mobile to record the event.

"Thank you for that inaccurate observation, Mary." Sherlock hardly looked away from the twins but addressed Edith. "I trust Mycroft is well?"

"Yes, and trying to clean up the mess you've made, in fact." Edith coolly replied.. "I'm glad your hair colour is coming back, the dye is hideous."

"That's what I said!" John exclaimed in agreement prompting Sherlock to throw a glare in his direction.

Returning his gaze to the boys, Sherlock tried to encompass his entire sight around them. Their tiny yet beautifully proportioned limbs. Their occasional burps and mewls. Their eyes. The thin film of dark hair that covered their heads. Their scent was sweet, of talcum and milk. There was nothing else on this earth than these two beings who perfectly represented the inextricable bonds that lay between him and Molly.

"Hello." Sherlock murmured to their sleeping faces. "I'm glad to meet you both."

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.oOo.

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How constricting the quiet seemed as Molly lay unconscious, suspended in the strangest state of unconsciousness and awareness. She could still sense light even though her eyes were closed. Her arms and legs lay useless on what felt like a hard bed.

She couldn't remember anything. There was nothing but a senseless darkness and she could not recall any further than being in the garden with the duke. The glorious sunset and the castle with its resplendent halls were a hazy remnant of her prison days. But that was a dream she now wanted to wake from.

Molly wrenched her eyes open.

All sense of space and direction was gone as she beheld a glass door and unfamiliar people in blue that seemed to float about her. With singular awareness, she picked up the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and squinted at the fluorescent lights in her face. She tried to heave herself up but found she could not move and as she adjusted to equilibrium from her drug-induced sleep, her eyes swiveled around in a daze.

When they came to the periphery, she detected a shadowy figure sitting next to her. Her vision cleared in dragged out intervals but it wasn't long before she realised who it was. It had been months. She had almost forgotten what he looked like and he had been more like a dream than a real person. Perhaps he was.

But she could recall with precision the deep, rich tone of his voice. She remembered how his lips tasted when they kissed and the way he held her hand in his. The grip strong and warm. Instinctively she reached out to touch her belly but when the palm met the skin, it fell flat and far lower than it should have been.

A deep, trembling shudder ran through Molly like an earthquake.

She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came, only desperate gasps as though she were drowning. She tried again and when the cry rose to her lips, she suddenly found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes and two hands grasping her clawed ones.

"It's all right, Molly, you're safe. Don't panic. The boys are safe."

Molly could hardly believe what she was hearing. "...safe? _Safe?_"

"They're in intensive care. They're fine."

Relief, blissful relief followed by an exquisite peace washed over Molly. She sank even further into the bed but it was the touch of Sherlock's hand cradling her cheek that stopped her from falling back. She clutched at the wrist and turned to kiss his palm.

A glimmer caught her eye.

In confusion, she moved her hand amidst the tangle of the IV and plastic identification cuff to see a wondrous diamond crowning the base of her ring finger.

Surely this had to be a dream. It had to be...it was too good, too perfect...

Her heart felt as though it would burst from her chest.

"You missed out an interesting case." She heard Sherlock say. "There was a master criminal mind, his three colleagues, and an organisation that stretched all over Europe. Threat of a global epidemic. Biological warfare. Some sleuth work on information from thirty years ago."

"Sounds like fun." Molly whispered.

He bent down so his forehead met hers.

"They're all gone now. It's just us."

Molly felt her throat tighten. Her eyes were prickling with unshed tears but she bravely set her face and did not let go of Sherlock's hand.

"I don't expect an answer right away. You can take years for all I care. You once made me promise you something and I think it's only fair I return the favour." His finger lightly pressed on the ring. "This isn't an obligation but a request. I'm asking you to promise yourself to me and only me.

"I've seen the boys. Their names are Nathaniel and John, I already figured out what you were planning to christen them as. Mrs. Hudson's calling them Nat and Johnny. I think it might stick. They're fat, pink, and seem inconsolable because they haven't been with you yet."

For the first time in what felt like months, Molly laughed. Her cheeks felt stiff and pained as she smiled but she didn't care. It was an easy price to pay for such happiness.

"I don't think Baker Street is a good place to bring you and the babies home. The press will be waiting and Mycroft thinks its unsafe on top of being too small. He and my sister-in-law have been looking into a new house. Once they secure it, I'll have us all moved in there."

"I..." Molly could feel her smile widen and Sherlock stroke her hair with his free hand. She found his lips easily and until that moment she didn't believe there was any sweeter kiss in all the universe.

"Did you want to see them?" Sherlock asked when they broke apart.

The light in Molly's eyes brightened like the summer sun. "Nothing would make me happier..."

.

.oOo.

.

As was the case with Sleeping Beauty awakening from her sleep to find a rejoicing kingdom, so too did Molly experience with her family and friends being deliriously happy that she was alive. Many tears were shed, particularly with her mother, and even more when she was at last presented with her newborn sons.

When Molly was moved from intensive care to a regular room, she was finally allowed the freedom to care for her children as she saw fit. She struggled to nurse them when she was given the clearance to do so but her favourite part of the day was none other than to lay in bed with the babies in the middle and Sherlock occupying the other side.

John and Mrs. Hudson came by every day without fail. Lestrade made an effort when he could for the Sabren case was still keeping his department incredibly busy. Gifts of toys, nappies, formula, and other baby paraphernalia were sent by Mary along with other well-wishers. Even Mycroft and Edith pitched in by presenting a sumptuous bassinet fit for a royal prince.

For this, Molly profusely thanked Mycroft until she saw an almost imperceptible glow of pleasure emanate from his cheeks.

"I can't believe how perfect they are." Molly murmured as she looked down at the twins sleeping contentedly side-by-side. Their soft, discernable lips were rimmed with a thin line of milk from having drunk their fill. Sitting in her own bed, she reached over to the bassinet to lightly poke at each of their wonderfully marshmallow-like cheeks.

"Perfect is a subjective term." Sherlock continued to read his book from his cot.

Molly looked reproachfully at him. "You are so mean..."

"No one's perfect." Sherlock pointed out as he stopped his perusal then walked over to the bassinet. His gaze turned downward. "But I suppose they could be fairly close."

She grinned in ready agreement. "John tells me when I was in ICU that you read to them. Is it true?"

"We only got through one book." Sherlock pointed to the novel he was reading earlier. "He and I do the voices."

"Can you try it now?"

"They're asleep, there's no reason for it."

"No, if you keep reading to them, they'll keep sleeping." Molly said knowledgeably as though she could accurately predict how her sons would react. "Please?"

"It's obvious this is for your benefit and not theirs. You're not being a good mother by placing your needs before your children's." Sherlock lightly mocked.

"Just read."

"I'm not used to being ordered about." Sherlock said but he was smiling. Ambling back, he picked up the book and dragging a chair to Molly's bedside, he flipped to the beginning and as he read aloud he could see her lovely face beaming at him from the edge of the pages.

"Once upon a time, there lived a king and his fair queen..."

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.oOo.

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	11. Epilogue

_3 Years Later _

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.oOo.

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The spring yield was high.

In a large part due to Molly's care, the hives had produced a larger quantity than in the previous seasons. A glut of heather honey awaited to be put into jars, spooned into tea, spread over bread, and sold at the local market. When she and Mrs. Hudson packed away the last of the honeycombs into sterile plastic casings, they did so with satisfaction and pride.

In celebration of the harvest, Molly called and invited a small group to Pendelton. A feast was promised to be served at seven if Sherlock were to arrive on time but knowing that he was out with John, who was a stickler for punctuality, she was confident they wouldn't miss it.

Pendelton was a country house nestled in an acre of sylvan paradise. Though not as imposing as Leeholm, Mycroft's dwelling in Surrey, it boasted the best features of neo-classical architecture. Long, paned windows and elegant columns provided a sophisticated counterpoint to the otherwise rustic colourings. Jasmine, rose, lilac, and delphinium ran rampant about the perimeter. Heather and long grass dominated elsewhere bringing butterflies in the day then larks by dusk.

There were enough rooms to be divided amongst the little family. Sherlock and Molly shared one. The twins remained in the nursery together and it had been discussed that upon reaching adolescence they could each have their own bedroom. Mrs. Hudson occupied another, initially having come to help Molly with the babies and as time went on, she transitioned into their live-in nanny and a member of the family. It was fortunate that there were enough spares to be converted into a library, study, and of course a laboratory.

In the days leading up to Molly's discharge from the hospital, Mycroft had discovered (although not without surprise) that Sherlock's finances were nonexistent. He only had just enough money to support himself alone, hardly the income needed for a family of four.

Pressing upon this disturbing fact, Mycroft urged Sherlock to consider accepting what amounted to as a government pension for services rendered towards the country. When Sherlock refused, as money was a subject he had little regard for, it again took the combined efforts of John and his brother to convince him to take what would turn out to be a generous income.

Molly and the boys were then taken to Leeholm as soon as she was released. There, she was spoilt and petted by Mycroft's staff. She would spend days lying in bed, having breakfast with Sherlock or cradling the twins whilst her brother-in-law was saving the world on top of scouring the counties for a suitable home. Edith helped by decorating and furnishing the house so Pendelton would be ready to receive its new owners.

The next three years were a period of discovery, change, and happiness.

As Molly and Sherlock worked on a routine in which the twins could revolve around, there was a great deal of push-and-pull. Some petty disagreements over whose turn it was to answer the cries at night or changing the nappies. Demands from Mrs. Hudson and Molly's mother that on no account could Sherlock perform autopsies on cadavers in the house whilst the children were present because frankly it wasn't decent or hygienic.

There were times that Molly felt he didn't give enough attention and affection to the babies or her. There were also times that Sherlock was overwhelmed in trying to adjust to familial life and found it hard to give up the benefits that bachelorhood had given him in the past. Then came a great row when Molly wanted to return to work and Sherlock, with her abduction still fresh on his mind, protested on the grounds that he didn't want to be left alone with the twins then tried to block the move. It wasn't until he explained the real reason why did Molly get over that hurt and the couple were reconciled.

Once Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Hooper were established as the twins' caretakers during the day, Molly was welcomed to join a private practice.

Frustration was an occasional visitor in an otherwise happy home but in the end, the two forces were able to come to an equilibrium. Limits were tested and shown. Patience was a sore virtue to hold. But love? That came easily and was in abundance.

The Sabren case on trial moved at a glacial pace and it wasn't until a few months after the twins' second birthday that a verdict had been reached. To spare Molly from having to appear in court, Lestrade negotiated a deal with the defendant's legal team by eliminating a few of the "lesser" charges but that was not a deterrent for the jury. Found guilty on all counts, the Lord Sabren was stripped of his office and title then sent to live out the rest of his days in a maximum security holding cell. His other three partners' fates were yet to be decided but the press as well as the public were confident of a favourable outcome.

It had taken years to reach a definitive answer to Sherlock's proposal. When she gave her consent, after much persuasion, they had a summer wedding at Hever Castle. She got to wear the white dress, he was given a ring of his own, and they celebrated their union with their closest friends at the fairytale-like venue.

It had even taken longer to find any kind of domestic bliss. It was far from perfect but it was just as good, at least in Molly's humble opinion. Her new profession brought her back to the world of living. She had seen and handled enough of the dead to last her lifetime. It was a refreshing change although she could not say the same for Sherlock. Recognising he could never give up the career he had started, she gifted him with unconditional support.

On Sherlock's initiative, he and John purchased their entire flat complex on Baker Street from Mrs. Hudson then turned it into a small office where they conducted their consultations. If Sherlock caught the tube on a good day, he usually made it home for supper and just in time to tuck the twins into bed.

Delighted that she had the day off, Molly and Mrs. Hudson used it to good advantage but getting to work in the kitchen. The boeuf-en-daube had been sent into the oven to slow cook for four hours along with an apricot-honey glazed roast chicken. An orange thyme salad with glazed beets and fresh greens were dressed with a honey vinaigrette. Stuffed mushrooms followed by grilled goat cheese and figs. Poached nectarines in lavender-honey syrup, pavlova with berries, and lemon sorbet for dessert. The cottage loaves had successfully risen and attained a golden crust that was hard-won by Molly.

And where were Nathaniel and John in the midst of this chaos?

They weaved in and out of the kitchen, calling to each other in loud but coherent voices.

"Will you boys stay out?" Mrs. Hudson was exasperated as she lifted Johnny into her arms to take him back to the playroom but she kissed his cheek all the same. "I thought I left the gate closed!"

"We need to get one with better locks and more height." Molly sighed as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and went out to investigate. "They keep figuring out how to remove it...oh, I knew it."

She stared down at Nathaniel sitting on the floor and tearing out a page from a book. The gate had been pushed open with the safety latch lying useless at its base. The little one finally raised his head, looking back at her questioningly with chubby cheeks and innocent eyes.

"Nat." Molly knelt down. "What are you doing?"

"Weading."

"You're destroying the book, that's not how you should treat them." Molly gently took the book away much to Nat's consternation. His face turned into a full pout that was so reminiscent of Sherlock's when he didn't have a case.

"Come on." She swept him into her arms as he started to whine.

Requesting Mrs. Hudson to return to the kitchen, she took charge of Johnny and together they all went to outside to the garden. Spreading a blanket on the grass and sprinkling upon it a few toys, she sat down and played with the twins. She romped with them in the grass, laughing as they fell into delighted shrieks.

Much to everyone's mild surprise, the boys' resemblance aligned closely with their mother. They had her delicate features, straight hair, retrousse nose, and her wide eyes but the colour as well as their love of mischief was clearly attributed to Sherlock. John was more than gratified and like everybody else, he pronounced them to be dashingly handsome.

"I'm glad they've got strong chins, good jawline too." John said during one visit. "Sherlock doesn't have either of those so it's great they look more Hooper than Holmes."

The remark earned him two full days of the silent treatment from Sherlock.

Giggling to herself, Molly reached out to kiss her boys and lovingly stroked their hair. Together, she held out her hands and the three set off on the grass for another adventure in the wild.

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.oOo.

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The summer night was warm with the fragrance of flowers and the sound of laughter. The garden was lighted with dozens of candles and lanterns in colours of pale blue, periwinkle, and rose. A set table awaited twelve and a bundle of fresh flowers were beautifully arranged for the centrepiece.

Edith was the first to arrive, Mary a close second, then Lestrade along with his new wife Cassandra. Mycroft came about fifteen minutes late and was followed closely by Mike and Jane Stamford. Sherlock and John arrived last but they were greeted just as enthusiastically as though they had been the first. Their voices all rose in happy clamour as they stepped outside to sit down.

When it came to dinner conversation, it was evident that Sherlock and Mycroft were the most deficient but the rest made up for what they lacked. They enquired after each other, admired and fussed over the boys, talked of current affairs, laughed at Lestrade's jokes made at the Holmes brothers' expense, and applauded the meal to be the most delicious thing they all had eaten in quite some time. Red and white wine flowed freely in between the pauses.

"Oh this is so good." Lestrade raved as he loaded his plate with a second helping of the chicken. Popping a chunk of bread into his mouth he turned to Cassandra. "How come you don't cook me dinner like this anymore?"

"I don't remember that being part of our vows." Cassandra quipped behind her wineglass.

"Yeah, neither do I, Lestrade." John grinned at him. "There are witnesses here to prove it, we've all been to your wedding."

"You could always hire a cook." was Edith's suggestion to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You're a lucky man." Lestrade craned his neck towards Sherlock. "But god, how do you stay so thin after eating all this?"

"An active lifestyle and good genes. I can't say the same for my brother." Sherlock coolly replied.

Mycroft scowled.

"He's lost a stone!" Edith said indignantly as she came to her husband's rescue. "He is trying, his metabolism isn't what it used to be."

"But seriously, do you work out a lot?" Lestrade persisted. He looked down at his own figure ruefully. "I mean, I could lose some too."

"Try running from people who want to kill you." John recommended in a cheerful voice. "We do it on a daily basis."

"Or obtain a vigorous sex life." Sherlock said as he deftly cut into his stuffed mushroom with a knife and fork.

There was an awkward pause at the table.

"What?" He looked around at their astonished faces and pointed at Molly with the butter knife. "She and I have sex four times a week, how else do you think I stay fit?"

"_Okay_, that's enough wine for you." John reached over to take away Sherlock's wineglass whilst Molly was blushing furiously and started to busy herself with helping Johnny with his fork.

Lestrade made an odd noise in his throat, struggling to express disgust and envy.

"Really, Sherlock, that was a bit rude to hear." Mrs. Hudson admonished as she fed Nat some cut fruit. "You should keep those things to yourself."

"I agree." Mycroft added.

"Lestrade asked me a question and I gave him the answer." Sherlock said plainly. "The physical dynamics of sexual interplay uses abdominal and upper body strength. I recommend you try it."

The Stamfords were looking increasingly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation and they weren't the only ones. John was staring after Sherlock as though he had sprouted horns on his head. Edith was horrified. Mary on the other hand pressed a napkin to her lips, trying to suppress her laughter. Even Cassandra was having a trying time not to smile.

"That is no business of yours." Mycroft grumbled, looking most unhappy.

"Boys, not now." John warned, seeing the inevitable storm coming a mile away. "Besides, Sherlock is lying."

"What?" Sherlock snapped his head to John.

"You don't have sex four times a week. We've been swamped with cases for months, Molly works full-time, and you've got two little ones running about. There's no way you have the time for that."

"Yes we do." Sherlock denied in a firm voice. "We just had sex this morning and last night—"

"_Sherlock!_" Molly was aghast. She turned to the flabbergasted table and tried in vain to minimise the damage. "I'm sorry, you know how he is, he's just joking."

"No, we did." Sherlock frowned in confusion and was seemingly oblivious to the looks he was getting from all directions. "You enjoyed yourself, I felt it."

"Please stop talking!" Mycroft ordered, throwing down his napkin onto the table in outrage as everyone else except Edith and Sherlock burst into mad fits of giggling.

At dessert, happily refreshed with the tang of lemon and sweetness of lavender, Molly and Mary got up from the table. Using the lights from their mobiles as flashlights, they insisted on everyone joining them for a run in hedge maze. Mike and his wife Jane readily participated but Lestrade and Cassandra had to be dragged out of their chairs. Edith declined on the invitation as did Mrs. Hudson, preferring instead to watch the boys.

John and Sherlock retired to the lounge chairs on the patio. Mycroft was a few yards away talking on his phone, presumably to a government official whilst Sherlock strained to get a good listen in on the conversation.

"Did you ever imagine it would ever turn out like this?" John asked as he leaned back and sipped on his Guinness.

Sherlock averted his attention from Mycroft to see Molly laughing and running across the grass with the dinner guests.

John smiled. "It turned out alot better than you expected, didn't it?"

"I don't expect things, I know things."

"You're saying that four years ago, you already knew that you were going to marry and have children with Molly?"

Sherlock refused to respond to which John merely shook his head and laughed. "God, you are an insufferable prat."

"You put up with it."

"Yeah, and so does she." John pointed to Molly. "Greg's right, you really are lucky to have her."

"I already knew that."

John rolled his eyes. "I bloody well hope you do."

"I also know," Sherlock suddenly felt emboldened, "that you've been dating my cousin."

In an instant, John sat up and blushing to the top of his head, he stammered out an explanation whilst Sherlock listened in amused silence. He had always been attracted to her from the day they met. He waited until after Molly had been safely discharged from the hospital. He went out on a few coffee dates which turned to lunches then dinners, and yes they had slept over at each other's flats a few times but he had been a perfect gentleman. A model of chivalry.

"It's fine." Sherlock interrupted, unable to hear anymore of John's incessant and verbose argument of why he and Mary "belonged together."

"So...so it's okay with you? Really?"

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. "Mary is a grown woman, she doesn't need to depend on the opinion of her cousin as to whether or not you're a catch. Personally I think she could've done better than an army doctor. I don't think Mycroft will approve but then, it's Mycroft."

"Thanks." John nodded, deflecting the insult. The reaction was far better than what he had been dreading.

The two lapsed into companionable silence, enjoying the last few hours of the evening. The twins were put to bed and in a last round of entertainment, everyone strolled about the grounds.

Joining Molly at last, Sherlock held her hand as they walked through the field and admired the dark outline of the woodland. They said little, only to update what each had been up to during the day, but what they appreciated the most was the opportunity to be alone together. More than once, Sherlock glanced at Molly whether to admire the delphinium blooms tucked in her hair or her bright eyes.

Sentiment...

What was he doing here, in this house, holding this woman's hand, and in such company? Were those two sleeping toddlers really even his or a mirage? All these components added to a whole that was so extreme and opposite of what he had identified with, what he had wanted.

There had been a time when he agreed with Mycroft's statement that caring brought no advantages and when he refuted John's stupid claim that it was friendship not solitude that gave protection. He often contemplated what the end result would have been had he kept to this credo. There was no question that he would be dead. There had been no inkling of a future had he gone his own way. Moriarty would have been the undisputed conqueror and Sabren would have gone on for ten, maybe fifteen more years of wreaking havoc on England.

The wedding at Hever Castle would never have happened. Mummy's ring would remain in a dark safe and Molly would have stayed at St. Bart's, never knowing the life she could have had. It would seem, on face value, that he had gained more than he had lost in vying for what John advocated all along.

An allowance to feel, receive, and give.

That unbearable confusion he had felt in the first few months of hiding at Molly's flat was gone now. He no longer had to deal with that struggle to solve the puzzle that she had left him. Why were people willing to lay down their lives, even against reason, for such inexplicable causes? Why was it so worth it to them, this thing called a heart? That emotion named love.

Quietly, slowly, he touched Molly's shoulder and when she turned to look at him, the world seemed to somehow make sense as he gazed into those brown irises. Still, he bent his head, wanting to recreate the epiphany that he had when she had first kissed him four years ago. Their lips met easily and for a moment, the earth felt as though it had come to an utter standstill. She broke away, smiling as time returned and the voices of their friends could be heard clearly, and he could not help but smile back. Wrapping her into his arms, they shared one more embrace and together, they made their way back home.

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.oOo.

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_Finis_


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